


Night Island Sacrament

by lestvt



Series: Intercourse With the Vampire [5]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: (tags will be updated as needed), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom!Lestat, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Post!QOTD, Sub!Louis, tl;dr in which lestat is lestat and Ruins Everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 16:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18472849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestvt/pseuds/lestvt
Summary: Post!QOTD:While Lestat is busy lamenting Akasha’s demise, Louis begins the search for that which he truly desires. And this time it's more than a simple lack of communication that will come between them.





	1. After Guillotine

In the wake of the guillotine the world felt as though it had undergone some great change. Oh, during those first few nights there was a sense of calm, of relief, yes. But still a dubious force seemed to be buzzing in the air. The water kept vibrating with a hot, nervous energy that sped, barreling through the sky, some residue of war, like a film that clings, lining the roof of the mouth after chewing a particularly fatty piece of meat. Even the dirt stank, emitting the telltale scent of decay now more than ever before.

When first it had rained in the nights that followed, I’d watched, hoping that it would wash away the lingering contamination and that things would slowly return to how they’d once been. But the truth was there was no coming back from it.

Mortal fear and suspicion were on the rise; the sense of dread that prevailed in the aftermath of those potentially apocalyptic events was so all-encompassing, so natural, that it could not be swept aside. Countless lay dead – murdered – and Ancient immortals, who might never have left their hiding places otherwise, were suddenly there, within reach. Even they, powerful and wise, could not escape it. All were altered by her path. Especially the one who’d sent her down it.   

Ironically, it was only in the ensuing lull that I finally understood this truth for what it was. Only then, when the seclusion and time had been granted, did I regain the wherewithal, the soundness of mind to take a step back and clearly think on the state of the world. And because of this, I recognized the magnitude of the threat we’d been under only too late.  

Though that’s not to say I was completely ignorant. Rather, my priorities became deluded by panic, you see. And how harrowing it is now to recognize that I’d lost sight of things as a result. I’d always tried so hard to paint the bigger picture – was obsessed with it really. So, to do anything otherwise was somewhat inconceivable.

I was surprised by my own naivety, my pure unawareness. How detached from reality must I have been to be sitting in a room with all those beings connected directly to the answers I’d sought, the ones I’d once chased so desperately, and to be thinking of only myself? Fruitless, selfish worries… And why? _What for?_

‘The world will come to ruin unless she is stopped.’

_Oh, but what of Lestat? Where is Lestat at this moment? Is he okay? Will she hurt him? Will I lose him for good?_

God, what a fool!

The fact of the matter was I _hadn’t_ lost him in the end. At least, not to her. Because he was here. We were sharing the same country, the same state, we lived on the same island and in the same building even. And I’d hoped it might mean something not just to me. But then, it hadn’t, had it? I’d not regained the Lestat that I longed for, if he’d ever existed in the first place that is. I’d regained nothing except the pain of my love gone unattended.

So, I thought I’d give it more time. _In_ _time he’ll come around… In time he’ll realize that I’m here…_ But ultimately, that too was not meant to be. And it was not Lestat, but Marius who noticed my plight first.

Fittingly, my confrontation came but a few weeks after that final, failed revolution had. Marius simply appeared one night as if from thin air, knocking briefly on my door before letting himself in, a word need not be uttered. And sitting there across from each other in that companionable silence, it was the first time I had considered just what the nature of this man was. Despite everything that had transpired and brought the coven to be, this was the first time I’d looked upon Marius (Armand’s maker, I silently recalled) and actively considered all that came with such age and experience that I, so _human_ , might never obtain.

I was ignorant.

And I should have found comfort in this realization, I thought, should have been lightened by it while sitting in his calming presence, basking in his ancient scent. The old me certainly would have considered it a great relief. But the current me, the one so thoroughly changed, did not.

Instead it was a testament to that change: something I’d overlooked. And that was it – the trigger to the realization that I’d allowed my world to become small. And the guilt that always supersedes such things with me…

_How could I have allowed this to happen? How could I have been so arrogant?_

Perhaps knowingly, it was after this thought that Marius decided to speak.

“Pardon me for intruding,” he gently soothed. “I thought perhaps there was something you wished to ask me.”

I hesitated.

He smiled reassuringly. “About the Mother?”

I frowned, still uneasy, but nodded.

Marius hummed and gestured for me to go ahead. The casual manner with which he held himself did little to conceal the wavering emotions he must have been experiencing however. Not that it needed to be broadcast; I was sure that regardless of age or knowledge or practiced indifference, it was something that could never be snuffed.

I lowered my eyes, humbled by that notion.

“I just wish to know...” The words felt like fire in the back of my throat. I spoke them anyway, because I needed to hear the answer. “Do you believe she actually loved him? Truly? Or was it all simply cause for recruiting further evil?”

“Why not ask him directly?” Marius’s eyebrow went up, inquisitive. “Surely, he’d know best.”

 I shook my head. “No. Lestat sees what he wants to see, but you… I thought you might have a different perspective after all the years you spent with her.”

“Ah, but that’s just it. I hate to disappoint you, Louis, only I couldn’t say for certain any better than you whether what she felt for him was true love or not. You must understand, she never quite revealed herself to me before that night. We shared no connection; I know that now.” Marius planted his elbows on the arms of the chair, shifting forward but a fraction of an inch. “So then, tell me what answer you were hoping for.”

My mouth felt suddenly dry. I brought a hand up, nervously rubbing the spot where neck met chest. “I wasn’t… I merely seek to understand.”

Marius paused, watching me for a long moment, waiting for me to continue. But I said nothing more, not sure what I was meant to.  

Eventually, he sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Let me ask you this: if I were to tell you that I thought she was a soulless devil – that she was simply using him as a means to an ends and she’d surely have cast him aside sooner or later, would it change how you feel now? And more importantly, would it change how _he_ feels?”

I bit my lip, eyes dropping again. What could I say to that either?

Marius stood up, sitting down beside me on the sofa. At this proximity, I found it near impossible to meet his gaze.

“You’re at a loss, I can see,” he observed, blunt, but not unkind. "But rest assured, my friend, in this you are not alone. Every one of us gathered in that village square to watch the guillotine fall. And it’s been done, yes, but not finished. Not by far.” His smile returned, wistful – almost indulgent. “Would you like my advice?”

I wasn’t sure that I did. But the ignorance scared me more than the answer ever could, so I gave a curt nod.  

Marius moved in a calculated manner. I realized this as he rested his wrist upon my shoulder and ran his fingers through the ends of my hair. The way he did it was exactly how I’d expect Lestat to, twisted around the tips of his fingers, poised for the occasional tug. One that could turn harsh at any moment.

A guilty pleasure of mine, I’ll admit. Though it was something I’d never told Lestat, and I wondered if Marius was aware of this fact. Perhaps that’s why he’d done it. Because it was this motion that caused me to look up again and meet his piercing eyes. So telling an action, that I didn’t bother trying to hide the vulnerability I felt welling in my own. I instantly knew I’d been seen completely through.

And only then, when I didn’t shy away from him, did he tell me. “If you want to move forward you must stop trying to find the future in the past.”

“So, there isn’t anything I should do?” I whispered dejectedly.

Marius’s smile turned saccharine. “Isn’t there?”

“I don’t know.”  

“What is it you want to do then?”

My frown hardened, a strain on the face muscles. “Nothing. I’d rather not be involved. It’s more my nature to observe. I simply find comfort in knowing all the facts.”

Marius dropped his hand and showed a pitying face. “Come now, you know that isn’t true.” He shook his head. “No, Louis, it’s not that you are so passive. You simply lack confidence. You will not act unless you are certain that it’s what you want to do, yet you cannot seem to make up your mind. Am I correct?”

Silent, I stared back.

Briefly, I thought of the time as a child when I’d fallen on freshly polished wood and rubbed my knees raw. The maid who found me scolded me for crying, insisting I needed to be strong, a man more like my father – that one day I’d take his place. I wondered where the memory had come from. I hadn’t reflected on that day since I was a young mortal man freshly put in charge of my family's plantation.    

 “So, it would stand to reason,” Marius went on, “that what you need now is to answer that dreaded question: what is it I truly want?”

“And if what I want is impossible? What then should I do?”

Marius kept smiling. “I do not have all the answers, Louis. This is something you must discover for yourself.”

I couldn’t help asking, “And Lestat?”

Marius’s subsequent laughter was a testament to the mirthful and almost paternal affection he felt for him.

“He will come around in time,” he assured with finality, “and we can expect it will be on his terms. But you already knew that, of course.” 

 

[…]

 

I wandered out of my room not long after Marius left, stopping just down the hall, a wall away from the thing I thought I wanted.

Despite the Florida heat I could still smell seeping in from my window, that sweet island essence, the air here was stagnant and electronically cold. I was momentarily distracted by repugnance. Then in its wake came a deep longing that I knew, inexplicably, could only be satisfied by something out there. Possibly, something yet unknown. And it deeply pained me to think of this, to the point of immobility.

Unsurprisingly, it was Armand who found me second, still standing there in front of the door thirty minutes later, looking just as lost as I felt no doubt.

“What are you, the monster from a children’s book?” he mocked. “Must you be invited in before you can enter?”

I peered over at him, turning slow and reluctant. I tried to look impassive so he would not feel the need to probe my mind, but my eyes had not managed, once again, to follow the rest of my face.

Armand’s softened in response. If only briefly.

Right at that moment, a crashing sound came from the other side of the wall, muffled by the thick insulation of the building. Inside his room Lestat was stomping around, swearing at something in broken, trembling French. Armand turned to me just as I averted my eyes, wincing at the volume of his voice, sharp like broken glass. Then, as though I’d predicted it, there came another crash, and a draft swept by from under the door. With it, silence.

In the corner of my eye I saw a hint of humor flicker across Armand’s face. He was probably moments from making a joke about it, but when he saw my devastation he instantly tensed.

“What exactly are you waiting for?”

“His call.” I bit my lip.

“Why?” he growled.

I didn’t know how to respond right away. “He said he wanted me here.”

Armand shot me a withering look. He was growing tired of the coven, and more specifically, Lestat already, I could tell, and this scenario was of no help to the contrary. Not that it _could_ be helped; we vampire’s are a fickle, solitary breed, as well you may know. And in Armand dissatisfaction had been bubbling since the start, noxious, like a witch’s brew. Lestat’s drama must have seemed to him as the perfect excuse to do something drastic.   

In that we were not dissimilar.

“So?”

I looked down at my feet. “He hasn’t come to me yet,” I admitted. In silence, I said, _Not since the time he followed me home_. I suppose because in a twisted, self-sacrificing sort of way, I now longed to relive that moment.

Armand scoffed. “You thought he would?” It was a rhetorical question. We both knew that, foolishly, I’d at least hoped. “Go to him yourself then, if that’s what you want. Don’t be such a coward.”  

“I’m not. I’m just worried. What could I possibly say?”

Armand looked away. “Nothing. It had to be this way, and if he can’t accept it and move on, then that’s his problem. Not ours. ”

I said nothing.

“Well,” Armand sounded slightly less indignant, “I won’t make it mine, and you shouldn’t make it yours either.”

Suddenly, there was a mechanical whirling at the far end of the hall. We both turned to look. Seconds later the elevator doors slid open to reveal Daniel bouncing on his heels inside. He made a straight line for Armand when he saw him, bright-eyed and thrumming with a carefree life I envied.

Though I couldn’t help but think that he looked a far-cry from the lively boy who’d once taken my story, now a number of years ago. Sometimes I had difficulty standing in his presence thanks to the memory of it.

“Oh, Lestat left?” he asked, well-meaning.

Armand’s expression went jaded. “So it would seem.”

“Uh huh…” Daniel turned to me. “When's he coming back?”

Armand quickly grabbed his wrist, garnering his attention again. “How would we know? And what does it matter to you?”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Okay, god! I was just asking...”

“Well, stop asking. Come on,” Armand ordered, already dragging him away.

Daniel huffed, muttering something along the lines of, “Whatever you say, boss.”

But Armand kept on without acknowledging him. He moved with some great purpose in his step that told me he’d been making plans. “You too, Louis. We’re leaving.”

I watched until they reached the end of the hall, the elevator doors sliding lethargically back across their track as Armand pushed the call button. When he looked back and found me unmoved from my spot, he shot me an exasperated glare. And at the same time his eyes, paled by the fluorescent lighting, took on the quality of stained glass, shining with the same infinite intensity they gained whenever he felt betrayed.  

 _He’s not unlike Lestat in that way._ I felt the hostility rolling off of him like raindrops from a bird’s back as soon as that thought crossed my mind. But I couldn’t help it. Like it or not, Armand, in some ways the two of you are all too similar.

Suddenly, his voice appeared in my head. _Now, Beautiful One_ _!_ _Lest you forget that life won’t always be waiting for you!_

Armand’s taunting use of Lestat’s name for me made me sigh. Regardless, I did as I was bid, stepping into the harsh, claustrophobic atmosphere of the elevator a few moments later, utterly unwilling.  

I peered up at the mirrored ceiling, put there to create the illusion of space. I examined first the brilliance of Armand’s hair color, accentuated even more so by the red numbers shining on the display and refracting off the walls back onto him. Then the uneasy giddiness plastered to Daniel’s face – the way his fingers curled around the belt loops of his denim pants. And finally, landing back on my own distraught expression.

The elevator gave its customary jerk as it started to descend. My stomach churned with the sensation of falling. I gripped the handrail and pivoted to face the window to distract myself, looking out onto the bustling urban jungle that was Night Island. Shining like a fairytale with its pristine white and silver buildings that caught the light of the flashing neon signs and tinted the world in saturated color – pink and purple, like looking through rose colored glasses; I heard the raspy voice of Edith Piaf, a lullaby in my head. Not so far from a dream, it seemed like glitter rained down from above every time the wind picked up, the lights catching the ocean’s spray and creating a sparkling effect. 

For a moment I pretended to catch a glimpse of Lestat – that when I stared off towards the water I could make out a speck of blond hair careening through the air like a cannonball, then landing on the beach. I imagined walking down there later to meet him, when the sun was near, feeling the sand beneath my feet and letting the Earth convince me to come out and say all the things that had been worrying my mind as of late. Giving voice to my fears and doubts. Taking what I wanted.

And oh, what a dream it was. Too good to be true.  

When I blinked I saw only my reflection in the glass, peering back against that skyline. Armand and Daniel were beside me, exchanging some secret intelligence via wordy glances, but once again Lestat was nowhere in sight. And in that moment, I felt terribly displaced.

 _The world’s changing faster than ever_ , I realized _. It might be time for me to catch up._

With a soft chime, the elevator came to a stop on the ground floor. The lobby of the building was as we’d left it: quiet, sophisticated without cutting corners for modern flare. There was soft music trickling from speakers in the ceiling, and I admired the way it so minutely shook the chandelier, making it glint. More importantly, I admired the antique chandelier itself for looking so in synch with its modern surroundings. So perfectly did it tie in with the impressionist paintings Armand had had hung on every available wall, it made me feel almost welcome, belonging. I enjoyed its blatant purpose.    

Daniel began speaking adamantly as soon as we broke through the glass doors and into the tropic southern air. Armand ignored him at first, leading the short walk to the northern half of the island, where the ferries docked. But Daniel seemed not only aware of this fact, but enthralled by the challenge. He grinned at Armand’s expression, distant and nonplussed.   

Though this was only my assumption, it seemed to me their issue resided in the fact Daniel’s most recent fixation was Marius. He made no attempt to hide his avid fascination with Armand’s maker after all. His eyes lit up at the mere mention of him, let alone when he heard his voice say his name, both internal and aloud. He was like a dog by the door, at its master’s beck and call.

In truth, I found his lack of a filter for the matter, even when faced by Armand’s obvious distaste, utterly charming.   

And Armand, trying so earnestly to hold back, kept glancing between him and the crowd, then over at me. His expression jumped constantly from affection to a longing sort of dubiousness. And when I thought about his approaching me tonight, I couldn’t help but wondered if I was partly to blame as well.

I slowed my pace, following a few yards back, vaguely aware of Armand’s patient voice growing thin as he answered question after question about his maker. But Daniel was still so new and inquisitive; clearly Armand couldn’t help but adore him for it, as attractive as it was repellent.

I abhorred it, shadowing these two immortal lovers mid-spat, weaving with them through the warm mortal bodies, it was draining. I kept my eyes down without really meaning to, watching the movement of the stained pavement beneath my leather-protected feet and idly counted the cracks just because I preferred it. Because it pained me deeply. There was a bitter sting, a pinched nerve in the back of my throat whenever I looked at them.

 _Vain jealousy_ , I thought and then missed a step when it nearly redirected me. I stopped, seconds from slipping away into the crowd to head back to the apartments, but then Armand turned and called to me, and I felt it. I glanced up and saw the contempt in his eyes, and I could not bring myself to go.

As we continued towards shore the buildings soon began to disperse off the skyline, revealing the void of the nighttime ocean. That illusion, the way the water mirrored the sky, stars twinkling back at themselves as if preening for their reflections, was only to be broken by the ferries. As white and pristine as the buildings, the latest models swayed along the docks, causing lethargic waves to swell the surface and distort it prettily.

One boat had recently docked; a small group of tourists was stumbling off on wobbly legs, starting to collect on the beach. Their faces were lit up with drunken smiles, so carefree, so happy to get away from the monotony of their day-to-day if only for the week.

Luckily, there was no one on the ferry back to the mainland at this time of night. At least not the one Armand had chosen for us. And though to my relief we were predominately secluded now, excluding the crew, I didn’t bother to ask where we were going. I was well aware that Armand’s true intention was to get away from the others. The question was “why?” Though I knew the answer would come when we got there. It didn’t matter so much where “there” was.     

On the ferry I began to observe them. I couldn’t help it; they were tense, and it drew my eye. I was amazed that they were standing huddled so close together on the far side of the deck despite their obvious unease. Like they couldn’t be separated. I began having dishonest thoughts of fate; it was too easy to imagine them tied together by an unbreakable red string.

As they talked I could only just hear them above the roar of the ocean, but in all actuality it was more that they weren’t saying much anymore. Though separated by the rules of the master/fledgling relationship, most of their communication seemed elevated to a more physical level than that.

I leaned against the railing, a hand up to keep the wind from blinding me with my own hair while I took in their other little acts of intimacy, not all necessarily affectionate in nature. There was something curious in the way Armand was holding his body, the momentarily peaceful posture of his shoulders when Daniel leaned against him, an arm around them, and stunned him with the sheer brilliance behind his eyes. But then it dissipated, and he deepened his frown.

Daniel simply laughed, tipping his head back and letting the sea breeze ruffle through his hair. But when Armand’s face remained cold and unimpressed, he soon quieted down. I saw something change in him too, something subtle. I did not know him well enough to explain it.  

Awkwardly, he withdrew his arm.  

 

[…]

 

The sky was overcast again by the time we stepped out of the taxi and onto the crowded streets of Miami. The building we’d come to was hidden in a narrow alley, but contradicted itself by shaking the concrete insistently below my feet in time with every thump of music echoing from inside. Passersby weaved around me as I stood staring up at the sign hung above the entrance. Promises of _Amnesty_ displayed in glowing blue letters.

“A haven for those with queerer inclinations,” Armand answered the question I dare not ask.      

I heard Daniel chuckle to my left. “Yeah, I’d say we’re about as queer as they come. We’ll fit right in.” Then he turned to give me a wink and promptly pushed his way inside. For a moment the music grew louder, then muffled as the door swung shut behind him.

Armand looked at me expectantly. I sighed and followed close as he rushed into the establishment after him.  

The aroma of this particular gathering of mortal life was especially pungent. It hit me like a waterfall as soon as I passed the sill – hints of semen and urine, powdered drugs and alcohol soaked veins covered in musky male flesh; that was what made up its essence, that _eau de_ _l'homoérotique_. I found myself basking in the strange memories it procured from me, ones of old sins passed and their scars. I recalled hot nights beneath thin sheets turned damp red and a sense of simplicity. It made my head ache.  

I was suddenly exhausted. And terribly anxious. Armand must have noticed, for he stopped and grabbed my hand, urging me swiftly along. And I allowed him to guide me more for his sake than my own, but it made it easier to keep my eyes down, and, truthfully, I was grateful for that. I did not wish to draw any unwarranted attention to us. I have always prioritized discretion. 

We soon found Daniel loitering at the edge of the mass of undulating bodies known as a “dance floor.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips while he watched them move, something burning in his lively gaze. As we approached, he glanced at Armand, then laughed and turned back.

 “Cool place.”

Armand’s grip tightened on my hand. He was quiet.  

I frowned, wondering if he was having second thoughts about saying whatever it was he wanted to say. I certainly hoped not.    

“Armand.” He looked at me. “Why are we here?”           

He stared coldly for a long moment, revealing nothing. Then he abruptly began to drag me along again, this time towards the bar. I shot Daniel a pleading look, and with one last longing glance in the direction of the dance floor, he followed.

The smile on the face of the pink-haired bartender faltered when he spotted Armand. He recognized him, I realized. He’d come here at least once before, and he’d done enough to leave a lasting impression.  A thought which worried me; being recognized by mortals was not quite conducive to keeping a low profile. All of the sudden I felt forcibly exposed.

“Hey,” his voice quivered slightly as he addressed Armand, leaning over for an assessing look at Daniel and myself. As he did, I quickly averted my eyes. “Can I get you guys something to drink?”

Daniel snorted mirthfully. “Um, actually…”

Armand cut him off. “The room I used before,” I looked up in time to watch the bartender’s eyes gloss over in response to his voice, “is it available?”

The man, completely entranced, gave a slow nod and slid an ornate golden key across the bar. Armand swiped it with his free hand and quickly began guiding us towards a staircase set in the far wall. As we went, I looked over my shoulder and watched the man shake his head, eyes clearing as he was released from Armand’s sway. For a second he caught my gaze, and I swore I could feel the fearful questions swarming his head.  Perturbed by this sensation, I looked back to the floor.

 Daniel’s feet flew passed my vision. He slowed in step with Armand, glaring at the key in his hand as though he wanted to take it. Instead, he dragged behind again as we approached the stairs. Then he looked at me, and the fervor gleaming in his eyes gave me the impression there was something he wanted to tell me, something he didn’t want Armand to hear.  But Daniel was hesitating. He probably didn’t trust me to hide it from him. And rightfully so, of course; I’m notoriously awful at keeping my thoughts concealed – Armand would likely attest to that.

The upstairs hallway was sticky and dark, made of black walls lit by sparse blue lights hanging from the bones of the ceiling. The doors that lined it were but subtle dips in the darkness, catching shadows, elongated through the cracks. There were signs hung on every one, each with some biblical reference adorning it that I found tasteless: _The Ark, The Stone, The Locust_. As we walked briskly down the hall I could hear the moans and grunts of men pleasuring each other through them. The scent of sex was more concentrated here, headier still than even the dance floor had been.

At the end of the hall sat a set of double doors decorated by a sign that read _The Garden_. It was here that Armand stopped, slipping the key into its hole and then urging Daniel into the room first. I paused after him, watching Armand scan the hallway suspiciously before he released my hand and allowed me to follow. Finally, the door closed behind us with a foreboding bang.   

The room was haphazardly embellished to its theme. The walls were a dark, earthy green color, illuminated by a single orange light in the ceiling, and there were plastic monstera and Devil’s ivy tucked into every corner. The bed was circular and sat in the very center of the room, directly below the light, and it was dressed in blue silks that might have resembled something of an oasis at a finer quality. The smell of sex lingered here too, but it was stale and clinical – the only room requiring a key, it was cleaner, obviously used far less than the others.

Daniel was already sprawled indolently across the bed when I looked over. Armand sat elegantly beside him, motioning with his eyes for me to do the same, but I could not bring myself to do anything more than stand there.

“You do want to know why I brought you here, don’t you?” Armand practically growled. He gestured again for me to join them on the bed, this time more aggressively.

I still did not.

Daniel rolled over onto his side and laughed. “Well, obviously not for a threesome.” He smirked dangerously at me. “Unless of course you just didn’t want Lestat finding out.”

I felt myself scowl. “Surely not…”

Armand shot Daniel a silencing glare. “No, enough about Lestat. This has nothing to do with him. And I didn’t bring you here for sex.” Then once again that glare was on me; I shifted my feet uncomfortably. “I want you tell me your thoughts on the coven.”

Daniel rested his chin in his palm and gave him a skeptical look. “What about it?”

“Their company, do you find it… necessary?”

With that, I finally understood. “You want to leave.”

My bluntness seemed to please Armand. He smiled something slight. “I’m heading for New Orleans within the month. And I’d like for you both to join me.”

For a long moment the room was silent – or at least as silent as it could be while still vibrating with the energy of the dance floor shifting violently below us. Just then someone cried out as they reached climax in the suite next door, their voice oddly in-synch with the melody pumping through the speakers in the hall, and their partner close behind. The light flickered overhead, and I swore that as it did Armand’s face hardened in the dark, like white stone.

It was Daniel who answered first. “Why?” He sounded incredulous.

“Because,” Armand said. I watched as his shoulders tightened up defensively. “It’s time to move on.” He peered at me. “We’re solitary creatures, are we not?”

Daniel scoffed and hopped off the bed, looking rather annoyed. “God, what the fuck is your problem?” he spat. “Are you jealous or something?” 

Armand grimaced.

Daniel went on. “If you want to run away and start another episode of the Armand Show, then by all means! What I don’t get is why you have to try and drag me and,” he gestured at me, “him into it! I know you’re miserable, but I thought you’d get that... that...”

Armand’s face became impassive. Very still. That to me was the most worrisome thing. His voice was calm when he spoke, “’Get’ what exactly, Daniel?”

“That I like it here!”

Armand looked at me. “And you?”

“Oh, come on!” Daniel huffed. “He’s obviously waiting for Lestat!”

Armand didn’t acknowledge him. Silently, he asked me if it was true, and of course I couldn’t deny it.

Daniel’s face went red right before he turned away. I think it bothered him, witnessing the connection he could never share with Armand. I figured as much because I’ve often had the same reaction to such unpleasant reminders. But instead of lashing out, he laughed rather hysterically, and glanced passed me with grief in his eyes.

“I’m gonna go dance,” he declared. Then he was out the door.     

Armand hadn’t reacted at all. He was still staring at me, waiting for my reply.

“You should go after him,” I advised.

“I’ll deal with Daniel soon enough. For now I would hear your answer.”

I shook my head, feeling a bit helpless. “Armand… I can’t...” 

Honestly, I didn’t intend it as a rejection. I mean, I hadn’t said much of anything really. But regardless, he took it that way.

Then his mask slipped; he scoffed at me sounding rather like a snake hissing, on guard. “Just what are you waiting around here for, your master to return to make it all better? Because if that’s what you think is going to happen, you’re a bigger fool than even I took you for.” As he spoke, his hands formed into tight, threatening fists. “He’s avoiding you, Louis. Face it, move on; you’re not the one he wants!”

And finally, he did as Daniel had done, the thing I should’ve done to start; he ran away. And I was left there, standing in that dirty little room all by myself.

I was shaken; I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. Stunned, I waited only a minute before also breaking through the doors and out into that dark hallway. It was empty, but I preferred it to the room. Something about being alone in there was extremely off-putting. I knew I didn’t belong. But the hall was the parenthetical I was used to – that place between places where I usually loitered – and for whatever reason it was easier to be alone there.

I leaned against the wall, breathing in deeply, trying to gather my thoughts. Armand had been partially right; it _was_ like I was waiting for something, but I had no idea what. The very concept of which made me feel ridiculous, childish, which was especially odd considering the smell of sex still constantly permeating my senses. I might’ve balked, but instead I was glad for it. It inspired me to move from that spot.  

When I came downstairs and into the main room I immediately began to search for them. It was easy to locate Armand among the mortals; his hair gleamed like amber under the flashing lights, and the whiteness of his flesh was a beacon beside the collective tan of the city of Miami. I spotted him quickly, a red light flashing, pushing his way through the crowd, and when I followed his gaze I saw Daniel smiling flirtatiously as he danced against some well-endowed young man. 

Armand tugged Daniel by his hand when he reached him. It wasn’t a violent pull by any means, but it was forceful enough to make a statement to his mortal companion. The man instantly backed off upon meeting Armand’s heated glare.

Daniel frowned at him. But Armand said something, leaning up and whispering directly into his ear, and his frown soon turned into a humorless grin. As it did, Armand’s hand rose up, petting down the line of his cheekbone, and I knew he was pleading with him with his eyes. He hadn’t looked at me that way in many years, but I still remembered the expression well. Like it was meant to do, it coaxed Daniel to answer a tad more patiently.

Then they kissed.

I felt suddenly very ill. I turned away from the proof of their reconciliation, the urge to choke tightening my throat, and I made my move, ready to flee this place once and for all. I had no purpose here the way they did. I didn’t have Daniel to anchor me to the present with his forgiving, modern perspective. I was stuck in another time.

Not thinking clearly, I covered my eyes as I walked. Not wishing to torture myself, I kept my head down, preferring darkness to the reality of my situation. But before I could make it twenty feet, I ran into something hard.  The impact sent me stumbling back against the person behind me, and I heard them gasp as they wrapped a hand around my arm, aiming to steady us both.  

“Oh, shit! Are you okay?”    

When I looked up I was faced with a pair of wide golden eyes framed with straight black hair cropped so short that it barely touched a thick, emotive brow. I had to tilt my head back; the man they belonged to was a bit taller than I. He was still holding me steady, his leather jacket buttery against the flesh of my arm. He smelled of warm blood, nicotine, and musk – absolutely, devastatingly tempting. In accordance, my gaze was immediately drawn to his jaw line, sculpted and dotted by stubble against well sun-loved skin. I found myself wondering how it would feel on my cheeks. I lamented, after all, that I hadn’t possessed the need to shave in many years.                

“I’m fine,” I managed to tell him, disentangling myself from his grasp at the same time. “I apologize. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The man made a mildly surprised face. It took me a moment to realize he was reacting to my accent. When he spoke again, I noticed he had one too – that his words were slippery with the lively romantic quality of the Spaniards.

“No worries,” he accepted, his hand still hovering near my arm. “Have a little too much to drink?”

“I’m just tired. Sorry again.” I made another move to flee, but he stopped me, reaching out to grasp my hand.

“You sure you’re ok? You’re, like, _really_ pale.”

I nodded, suddenly wanting to hide my face. When I met his gaze despite myself, something about his aura shifted. His eyes glazed over the same way the bartender’s had when he’d seen Armand, and I felt a hot, pulsing guilt coming alive inside of me. I looked down at his hand, tight on my own, and swallowed hard around nothing.

“I’m Em… Emile.”

I found the way he paused while saying his name very curious. It was almost as if he’d just revealed something pivotal to me completely by mistake. I nearly ran away again, but it was that wretched guilt that ultimately compelled me to stay and answer.

“Louis.” 

Emile smiled down at me warmly. “So, Louis, why not have a drink with me?”

“I don’t imbibe,” I lied.

“That’s okay. We can get you something light. You won’t feel a thing.”

I’m not sure why, but I did not resist as he began leading me towards the bar. Maybe it was his insistent attitude coupled with my sheer distaste for going off alone in this mind state. Or the desperate desire to be anywhere but under Armand’s scrutiny or trapped on that island waiting around for _him_. Maybe it was that subconsciously I could not forget Marius’s advice – that I was becoming possessed by it.

But whatever the cause, I sat slowly beside Emile while he waved the bartender down, listening to the way he pronounced certain words with interest as he ordered our drinks. Covertly, I admired the handsomeness of his innocent mortal face. And I instantly knew I could never harm this man. I was too enraptured by him already. It worried me deeply.

Once he had a glass of whiskey in his hand and one shot already in his stomach, he began making conversation. “ _Parlez-vous francais?_ ”  

Caught off guard by his perfect pronunciation, I could only nod.

He switched back to English. “So, you’re from France?”

I stared down into the colorful drink he’d ordered me, uncertain why I hadn’t simply left when I had the chance. “More or less.”

He laughed. “What’s that supposed mean? Are you or aren’t you?”

I ran a finger along the rim of the glass. The ice clinked together inside, already beginning to melt. “I suppose, yes, my family was. But I was born in Louisiana. I spent most my life in New Orleans.”  Then I met his eye. “And your family, are they from Spain?”

Emile’s face was unreadable. He tossed back his whiskey before answering. “Argentina actually, but yeah, those are my roots. More or less.” He grinned cheekily.

I couldn’t help but smile back, if only a bit. “Argentina…” I’d never been, not even during my travels in the years following Claudia’s death. I wondered what it was like. “What brought you to the states?” I asked instead.

“Nothing specific,” he sighed, but then he went on. “Just family stuff, I guess. I had to get away from all the drama. Catholics, ya know?”

I hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“What about you? Why leave New Orleans?” He took a moment to retrieve a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He tapped it on the counter before pulling one out to place against his lips, unlit. “Or are you here on vacation?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t lived there in many years.”

Emile motioned to the bartender, the same pink-haired man, to get him another drink. When he was gone, he dug out a lighter and sparked up his cigarette. After exhaling, he turned back to me.

“So, you live here? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Nearby,” I offered noncommittally. “I don’t get out much though.”

“Why not?”

 I shrugged. “I haven’t really felt the need.”

“Oh, no?” he muttered. “Maybe you should.”

Just then the bartender reappeared with his drink. He stared at me unblinkingly as he set it on the counter. It made me feel paranoid, like he knew my darkest shames simply by looking at me. He left quickly, without uttering a word. I wondered if he knew what I was.  

Emile took a sip, shivering as it touched the back of his tongue.

“Maybe,” I concurred, not really believing it.  

“What changed your mind tonight?”

I glanced over to where Armand and Daniel had been dancing earlier. They were gone now. I hadn’t noticed them leave. “My… _friends_ brought me along.”

Emile’s smile turned flirtatious, something predatory lingering just beneath. I instantly thought of Lestat when I saw it, and it made me rather uneasy. I looked down, noting a worn paperback, a mystery novel sticking out of his coat pocket.

“Well, where are they now?” he inquired. “I wanna tell ‘em thanks.”

“They’re around,” I said, not quite comprehending what he meant by that, but knowing that, as mad as Armand was, he wouldn’t abandon me to the city. He and Daniel were probably just back in that room continuing to… make up.

“Huh.” Emile briefly looked off in the same direction. Turning back, he asked, “They ditched you, didn’t they?”

I bristled, instantly defensive. “No, I don’t believe so.”

The condensation on Emile’s glass dripped around his long piano fingers as he finished it off and placed it back on the coaster. He dried them on his acid-washed jeans and then took another drag from his cigarette. Afterwards, he tried again. “Third-wheeling it?”

I furrowed my brow at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

He chuckled disbelievingly. “You know when you go out with your friend and his boyfriend, and you’re supposed to be having a good time, but instead they’re all over each other, and you’re left with a brutal reminder of your own perpetual singleness? That’s called third-wheeling.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t certain I completely understood, but I could gather the gist of it. I recalled the burning in my chest when I’d watched Armand and Daniel kiss and related it to that. “I suppose that’s accurate. Or something akin to it.”

Emile was still smiling. “So, you’re single?”

I grimaced. “You mean, am I in a relationship? That’s a complicated question.”

“Not really. You either are or you aren’t.”

I looked at my hands, clasped tight together in my lap. “I’m no longer sure of the answer.”

Smile now vanished, Emile stared at me. “Well, there’s obviously someone you’re seeing,” he assessed. “So, where is the elusive non-boyfriend now?”

 Taken aback, I all but gaped at his use of the term “boyfriend.” I’d never once applied such a modern label to my relationship with Lestat. To me it seemed so juvenile, not to mention completely inaccurate and just plain misinformed. Lestat was far from a “boy,” let alone a “friend.” But what contemporary term existed for “maker” or “immortal lover” or “the one who’d killed me in order to keep me for himself and then left me to suffer in modernity alone?” As far as I knew, there was no such thing.       

“I’ve no idea,” I reluctantly admitted. “He tells me nothing.”

Emile huffed through his nose. “Some boyfriend.”

“He’s not really…” I paused, unsure of what I was going to say. That Lestat was not my “boyfriend?” That these days he felt like nothing to me at all? And I nothing to him? But no, that was much too private a thought to share. Much too painful too. Instead I told him, “He has no obligation to me.” Because it was the cold, hard truth of the matter. 

“Um… no offense, but that’s pretty fucked up. A relationship _is_ an obligation. That’s kinda the point of having one: to hold each other accountable for stuff.” 

I almost laughed at that. It came out as a scoff. “If only things were ever so simple.”

Emile’s lip twitched. “They could be,” he said, “with the right person.”

Unnerved by the transparency of his intent, I looked back down into the drink I couldn’t consume, begrudging it. “This person you speak of… I don’t believe they exist.”

He touched my arm. “You probably just haven’t met them yet.”

I wanted to say that if in two hundred years of roaming this earth I had not already located such a person, then chances were it wasn’t meant to be. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t disclose this thought, but it occurred to me then that I hadn’t exactly been looking either. No, rather I’d been wasting time chasing after Lestat. And that was precisely what I continued doing even now, was it not? Search for a way we could be connected.

“You gonna drink that or just stare at it all night?” Emile asked then, indicating towards the glass still sitting untouched, crying condensation before me.

I shook my head. “If you recall, I told you I don’t imbibe,” I reminded him.  

“Right.” He smirked skeptically. “Forgot.”

_Louis…_

My head whipped around. Armand was standing at the foot of the stairs looking ruffled, his hand wrapped around Daniel’s elbow. I could feel his attention acutely on me, but his wide, manic eyes were staring at Emile’s profile, analyzing. My gut reaction was to want to shield his face. To curtail this I stood up from the barstool, keeping my eyes pinned to Armand as I moved. Silently, I asked him what he wanted of me.

_We’re going._

I looked back to Emile. He was watching me intently.

“It’s time that I depart,” I informed him, stepping away.

He caught my hand. “So soon?”

“My companions are waiting for me.” I pulled away, my eyes darting back to Armand, whose frown had eased, but remained nonetheless. Emile followed my gaze, an unnamable glint shining in his eye as he picked them out of the crowd. “They intend to leave.”  

With that, Emile put on a serious face. “Listen,” he began, “I can tell just by looking at you that you’ve got a lot of shit going on. If you ever want to vent to someone about it, I’d be happy to listen. I’m here every Friday night after work. Just come see me. Okay?”

“I don’t think so.”

My face must have revealed my distaste for the offer, but Emile simply smiled.

“Just think about it,” he pushed lightly. “I’ll be around either way.”

Though I had no intention of returning to this place, I had, reluctantly, to admit I was intrigued by him. It unsettled me. I was wary about the way he stared at me like a hungry wolf, but the apprehension brought something more than discomfort; it made me feel alive. And I worried for what that meant. For us both.

Because in truth, I wanted change. I wanted to feel wanted. And not in the way that Lestat or Armand or any immortal I’d known had wanted me – to have me selfishly at their whim or control me. But in the way a mortal wants another mortal. The simplicity of biological attraction, to be physically, emotionally, _chemically_ desired, and that’s all.

But I knew it was much too late for that. I’d already missed my chance long ago, and there was no turning back.

No, because now, like this, I was incorporeal – starved of touch – and that solitude came with a heavy price, a bleeding sorrow that drowned me. After all, it brought with it this conclusion: to be touched is to be made of matter, and so matter I surely must not.

“Thank you for the offer,” so I said, “but it’s completely unnecessary.”

And with that I turned and left.              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I had a lot to talk about with regard to this first chapter and the story overall, but I can't seem to remember any of it now lol... Uh, well... I've never actually written Marius before, so I was little nervous about that. But it's done and I'd say I'm relatively happy with the results. So we progress... 
> 
> Also, just a quick disclosure; I will be switching between Louis and Lestat's respective POV's every chapter, so the next will be told from Lestat's. Hope it's not confusing. 
> 
> Otherwise, the only thing I can think to comment on is my OC: Emile is a character I've been developing for this story for a while now. I think he's pretty interesting. I hope you guys will come to agree as you get to know him more. We've only just scratched the surface of his... complexities.
> 
> And for those of you who might be skeptical about him and his place in the story, let me just say this: Don't worry, that warning for Louis/OC won't amount to much, I promise. I only ship him with Lestat, Em's just here for the drama lol
> 
> Anyway, as usual this still needs to be edited a bunch more,  
> so pls ignore any mistakes until I find the time, thanks~


	2. Lestat's Lament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: (7/13/2019)  
> Like an absolute moron, I forgot to add the bit at the end of this chapter where Lestat sees Louis [spoiler], which is an important driving point of the story. I was going to try and fit it in elsewhere, but couldn't figure out how. So, I went ahead and added it to this chapter where it belongs anyway instead... lol whoops /shrug

The moon was a white scar on the black sky, shining through the glass of my closed bedroom window like a foreboding spotlight. It was merely a sliver, however, something left by the smooth slash of God’s sword, which aimed not to kill, but subdue. I found myself imagining it was a portal He was slowly unthreading, gaping wider and wider with the intent of deliverance, either by swallowing the world whole or releasing some eldritch monster upon it.   

From the desk by the window a single lamp illuminated my room in a warm yellow glow. Diffused by the glass, it cast soft angles of shadow across all the furniture, creating little corners of darkness: the perfect places for any monsters to lurk (I almost laughed at the thought; what need would a monster have to hide from its kin?).

And when I glanced around the space, looking for inspiration between the barren walls enclosing me, I found myself actively wishing it was sunlight, thinking that, if it were, it might reveal something new to me. That perhaps there was some possibility, some remedy I had no yet considered hiding just there. For in the night it remained discreet, cloaked by the shadows.

Foolish, that. The most honest parts of me knew this was, in fact, just a self-indulgent fantasy. After all, I’d already seen the sun. I could now whenever the desire struck me. And it hadn’t fixed a thing.

Feeling downtrodden and utterly disadvantaged, I sat in the desk chair, arms crossed and glaring at the typewriter before me with real disdain, as if with but a look I could intimidate it into telling my story automatically. I wondered if my newfound strength would actually allow me to write like that, to put words down with merely a thought.

As a test I stared hard and unwavering at the keys, willing it to be so. They gave in easily enough, dipping down to mark random letters upon the page without much purpose, if any. When it was done I read them over, unimpressed, then tore the paper out, crumpled it, tossed it away, and adjusted the ribbon to start again.

I decided to use my fingers this time around, wanting to revel in the satisfaction the feeling of pressing down on the keys provided me: the weak, too fragile resistance of metal, and how its movements were controlled, completely by my design. I typed one sentence, the first thing that came to mind – _Let there be light –_ then scoffed at the dregs of my villainess self in my ennui.

I despised being this way, this morbid creature. But oh, how undeniable, this curse I’d been given – this longing! Oh, how I missed her, my goddess, my Akasha! How I continued on aching for her! Vile creature that I am, horror that our story was. Even so, her death had stuck a wooden stake in my heart and twisted!

Yet, I was so relieved she was gone.  

_My love – my Queen of the damned – forgive me, for surely even now you must know how I yearn for you. But wherever you are, please stay there! I’m begging you; if you love me at all you’ll never return to this life. For I’d be powerless – I’d let you drag me down, and all through my Hell I’d adore you!_

Though, beg as I might, privately at least, it still felt like a lie. As long as that small, powerful part of me continued to exist, the one that wished she would resurrect, the same part that felt I’d asked for this, it would. And that was the crux of my predicament. Because I knew I did deserve it. And too, I knew what I did not.   

Besides, what comfort was there to be had by me? Only time could heal wounds of the soul, was that not the case? But I was not even sure I possessed a soul anymore, if I ever had to begin with of course. So, to _seek_ comfort? The thought alone made me violently ill.

And why should I need it anyhow? I’d already accepted my fate, already lived for so long without her beside me. Though she’d been skulking in the back of my mind always, if only for my love of mystery, and for that reason I felt as though she’d become a part of me. Now, however, I could see that she never really had been. At least not until I’d taken her blood and become her angel of death.

Her blood, which made me this demon of immeasurable power, this otherworldly thing turned unworldly! And I’d reasoned to myself that it meant I should not desire comfort as humans do. I thought I should be able to move on alone, for it was no more than what I’d become accustomed to already. Being left behind. And I was stronger than that. She’d seen to it; I could not let her down.   

But then, no longer was I that same immortal villain I’d once been, was I? The one embracing darkness wholeheartedly, even as a farce. I’d been changed so thoroughly by her touch – far more than anyone could have predicted. Not just physically: I was stronger now, yes, but too the old me was devastated – exsanguinated into nothing more than stains on a linoleum floor. The evil I’d once taken as granted, as natural, now felt like an anvil dragging me down to a corporeal, living hell of my own creation.   

And I couldn’t bear it! I thought I’d seek to release the pain as Louis had, by getting the story out onto published paper, but not even words brought relief, because there were none! I was trapped!

I cursed and suddenly rose up, knocking my chair over as I used both arms to fling my typewriter off the desk. It scattered the stack of papers I’d placed beside it, knocking over the lamp and bouncing off the wall before crashing to the floor with an angry thud. It echoed like a gunshot against the hardwood.

I stood rooted to my spot, staring at the desk, heaving. My senses were heightened, body now convulsing with adrenaline, as if my rage was attempting to perpetuate itself. I would not be surprised if, with a mind of its own, it was.

But I resisted the urge to allow it its agency, and as the rush slowly faded, I felt instantly childish, harrowed by the stillness now hanging heavy in the air, only amplified in the aftermath of my outburst. I wondered why I always had to live up to my reputation like this. Brat Prince, indeed, that’s exactly who I was.   

Just then, the floor creaked from beyond my door; it was this which ultimately broke me from my trance, clearing my eyes of that blinding fury fueled by mourning. I realized only afterward that I’d begun holding my breath (an old mortal instinct left in me, now turned useless). I let out a shaky exhale, one that hurt my throat to expel, but was meant to be calming. Then, curious, I inhaled again through my nose, and on the air I caught a whiff of tempting nostalgia.

I decided to wait, listening for more. What followed was familiar silence. I knew immediately then that it was Louis standing there, outside my room, wanting for me. I’d recognize his presence anywhere and at any time in my life; there was no forgetting that aura of melancholy he exuded at all hours, the memory of which was so ingrained in me that my skin reacted to it even now when he was out of reach. As if he already lay naked before me, I was itching for his touch. 

 Oh, my dear, depressive Louis. He rarely does that – want me enough to seek me out. And those times that he has, I’m sure to savor. In fact, in my many moments of fear those were the memories I often turned to. I’d close my eyes and recall our reunion, the way he’d looked in his rumpled sweater, an old being in modern garb, exactly as I’d always imagined. Still my Louis, ever broken, ever the same, now finally seeking me out as I’d once dreamed he would.   

Of course, that was all well and good in the past; in truth I loved him like that more than anything. But here, in these nights thereafter, it was quite the impasse. For this reason I tried to ignore him, but it was near impossible when all I really wanted was to paste him together again and hold onto him like that. His continued existence was my greatest comfort after all, which in turn became my greatest torture. Because I feared for him.

He was so saturated by his own woe, I could all but smell it. So, to seek me out now, when I was not so different? Why? Why now, when I know it will create a rift between us? Why does he never come to me when I want him to anymore?

Because he’s just that selfish, I supposed. And silly, sad thing that he is, of course he called out to me, wishing to share my hurt. But no! It would surely overcome him, and I simply couldn’t allow that to happen. Not to Louis – never him. I’d sooner leave.

Not only that, but his weakness beckoned to me in another way as well. He’d already given his answer, told me “no” at least once, but the fact remained that as the nights progressed, as I felt my own weakness creeping up on me, I wanted now more than ever to give him my blood. To strengthen him as only I could – if only he would allow it!

I should’ve foreseen his reluctance, I suppose. This is my ever unwilling Louis, after all. But watching him wallow now, watching him go on caring not for the fate of his own subsistence, compelled me above all else to protect him.

Honestly, I wanted to simply force it onto him! It would be only all too easy with this strength! Sure, he’s always searching for past wrongs to use against me, and he’d probably never forgive me if I were to do such a thing.

But, really, has he ever truly forgiven me for anything I’ve done to him anyway? If I were to force him to take my blood against his will, would it not be simply more of the same – more of Lestat doing, taking as he pleases without a care for what anyone says?

And, yes, my darling would likely hold it above my head for all our eternity together. But at least then we might _have_ one!

And besides, since when has Louis been an authority on what’s good for him? Certainly not in the many years that I’ve known him. 

So, yes, I thought, I should do it! But I couldn’t, not without his consent. It would bring me no satisfaction. For, equally, I wanted to respect his wishes, and to violate his trust in that manner sounded far too much like the echo of rape. The thought of which churned my stomach.

Which was why I’d made up my mind to avoid him. Shockingly enough, despite my continued longing for him, it was something I’d managed to commit to for the better part of our time on the island too. I was surprised by the ease with which I returned to life without him.

But it was… easy that is. After all, in my current state I was far too concerned with my own turmoil to face his pessimistic scrutiny. I couldn’t offer him comfort as he desired; I could not even comfort myself! So, when he came looking, when he sought me out, I’d make the choice to vanish as far out of his range as I could. Sometimes even across the ocean.

It was more interesting that way. I played a game to keep my mind occupied, one where the other player could only be David. Recently, tormenting him with all my ideas for testing the limits of my newfound power had become my favorite distraction. And on those nights I enjoyed my existence in a way I hadn’t been able to since Akasha’s death, feeling again like some shadow of the old Lestat.

Dear wizened David, curious and mortal, was the perfect receptacle for my anguish, so easy to trick, to get a reaction out of (this modern Louis didn’t fall for my taunts like the old him had; he spoke my language much too fluently now a days), but not so easy that I grew bored of him. I spent those nights endlessly teasing him by walking on the precipice of self-destruction, threatening both myself and others in order to keep his active mind, his fleeting attention pinned firmly on me.

And I did this simply because I enjoyed watching his face harden in amazed alarm or astonishment, if only for all the wrong reasons. After all, with David there was no guilt, no haunting, sorrowful eyes or regret – no past to look to for ammo. And despite his continued wariness towards my visits, he did seem to be learning to read me quite effectively.

Oh, how I adored him for that, ever the proud intellectual, determined to prevail over the frightened animal inside, desperate to survive, to flee the predator: me!

With David I had no need for confessions either. We shared a deep connection; it was as though most often he understood my silences long before my words, a unique quality of his for which I was eternally grateful. It enlivened me.   

Just then Armand’s voice came through my door, reminding me of the present. He spoke to Louis in an aggravated tone I wanted to smirk at, but I found that my face would not acquiesce to such an impulse, twisting instead to scowl of its own accord.

Louis seemingly made little attempt to hide his frustration with the situation either, giving Armand no real reply as far as I could make out. If memory serves, silence was always how he best got his point across, was it not?

If anything, this only hardened my resolve to stay away. Louis’s typical anguished tongue-biting served as further proof that my assumptions were, in fact, completely based in truth.

And Armand, that devious little imp, knew exactly what he was after. He knew who to blame to get it too. As he spoke to Louis with words, he spoke to me with thought, berating me for knowingly putting him through this agony. But, even still, I could feel his amusement, tickling and excited; it made the hair of my arms stand on end.  

He wanted to take Louis away with him, I’d long since realized. He wanted to attempt to play the hero to my villain by saving poor, sweet Louis from my _horrid abuse_. And, repulsive though that sounded to me, in my current state I was almost tempted to thank him, to think, _Yes, please, take him away from this place so that I do not have to deal with his morbidity any longer!_

But no, I couldn’t tell him that. I didn’t want to give them any sort of blessing to move on. It pained me so, the thought of Louis finding comfort where I could not. It stung even more than the thought of dragging him down with me.

Armand seemed to have heard me however. Evidently, my thoughts were not quite secure enough. Perhaps this was because, deep down, I wanted him to be aware of my anguish too.  

_Good, then stay away_ , he silently spat. _You’ve done more harm than good. That’s all you ever do._

Wretched thing! It was my own helplessness with regards to the matter that ultimately compelled me to lash out yet again, knowing full well I couldn’t confront it, least of all now. But I wanted to snap his head from his little neck like a twig!

Spitting up curses in French, for they felt more impactful, I slammed my fist down on the desk, then flipped it completely over. At the exact same time, the window suddenly cracked; to me it was a sign.

I knew I had to get away. I had to escape the judgment of all those who could not understand my dilemma – of the Ancients, and Gabrielle, who begrudgingly pitied me, and Armand’s knowing, disdainful continence, which urged me to do something I’d regret. And most of all, I had to escape my beloved fledgling, my Louis and his beauty, so utterly drenched by his pain. For he was my guilt personified.

The window glass shattered satisfyingly as I burst through it, uncaring of any potential witnesses nearby. Though the others would certainly advise against such recklessness, I’d gladly encourage them to try to stop me if they could. Good luck to them! I’d made up my mind on the matter, just as I had about Louis.

Besides, in my eyes there are far worse things than being seen by mortal men for what I truly am – even to be captured by them and studied like some sort of wild beast. In fact, they too were welcome to try it! After all, I relished the thought of them succeeding. I fantasized about it as though it were all the evidence I needed that I could, in fact, be stopped by someone out there. Which to me was a soothing thought.

And then there was the notion of the widespread visibility which would likely follow. The dream of my image reappearing on their news broadcasts, a man in a suit reporting my monstrous existence to the world, but now using proof, real science jargon and facts to explain what and why I am – I relished it!

How would they react? Would they fear me? Would they flock to my side proclaiming their undying love as they had for the “eclectic” rockstar? Would they try to dispose of me – burn my body to ash and then scatter me across the ocean? And once I was no more, would they begin hunting down my “nest?”

Well, that was far from a comforting thought, I’ll admit…   

But oh, to be offered the chance to once again have my existence celebrated across continents like that of any recently risen star, or any newly discovered species! I cannot even begin to describe to you what ecstasy that thought produced in me. Like the applause of the audience as I sang onstage, I thirsted for it just as I thirsted for the drink.

_Oh, yes, the drink..._

As I was saying, I left the island in a blur that night. It had not started out as a conscious decision. In actuality, I’d merely been following my gut, as I am so apt to, so used to doing. But when I descended onto a small municipality just north of Miami, I was once more reminded of that empty thirst within me which did not _need_ to be satisfied.

Regardless of needs or otherwise, however, I’d come here with the intention of revisiting an old residential neighborhood where I’d caught the scent of malevolence some nights before. Inexplicably, I knew that the chase would both start and end in this particular part of town.

I lamented, it would have to do for the moment. Because although I could never have all that I wanted, because there was no delivering me from this depraved body and all the blood on its hands, there was always another evil-doer born to be taken to death, to call out for the freeing touch of its equal.

Therefore, there was always something to live on for. For as long as mankind and their notion of “good” existed, so existed the notion of evil, and so too existed the hunt.

And the hunt would always satisfy me. It could not betray me.  

In order to go on, I couldn’t admit to anything less.

               

 […]

 

In the end, it took seven human sacrifices to quench the God that night. I’d all but laughed at the irony once the feeling finally trickled back into my face. Holy number seven: I should have stopped one sooner, I thought. At least that would be appropriate, not some cosmic joke. If I’d believed in God back then, I might’ve even mocked him – might’ve shook my fist at the sky and shouted, _I’m onto you, dammit!_ _Believe me,_ _your time will come!_ But I didn’t.

The first victim was a serial rapist I found prowling through the streets, psyching himself up for yet another assault. His thoughts were strident, reliving his favorite conquests with so much reverence that I’d tasted it on the wind and been instantly drawn to him. And though he was cold long before I’d taken him, and his struggle felt marvelous against my lips and hands, his death left me utterly unsatisfied.

He was not the soft young girl, frail and innocent, who he’d been stalking on her way home from the diner, fresh off the late shift. No, where his hair was graying and thin, greased with time, hers was brown and full, freshly washed. Where his eyes were voids of anger, selfish and heartless and oh so much like a mirror, hers were filled with a sunshine so bright any seraph would envy her. And where his deserving expiration, where his tainted blood did not numb me from my own evil pain as it slid down my throat, I couldn’t help but imagine that hers certainly might. If only for a moment.

I wept as I made my way back to the city, having disposed of his body in the ocean. But you see, I was not sure it was in sadness. No, I couldn’t process quite what I was feeling. I’ve never been familiar with this particular brand of immortal turmoil. I didn’t typically wallow over the desire to kill humans to the point of starvation like _some vampires I know_ , and it’s a fact I’ve always prided myself on.

So, what then was this reaction? Why was I still so miserable?  

I did not have time to dwell on this query, however. When I slid into my room through the window a few hours later, having tried and failed to drown out the pain with five more delicious deaths, I was not alone.

Armand was there, sitting on my bed, moving the shards of glass from the broken window back and forth across the floor with the tip of his shoe.

He spoke evenly and without meeting my eyes. “You have to end this misery, Lestat. Loath though I am to admit it, only you possess the power to do so.”

I grimaced. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t insult me by pretending to be ignorant,” he calmly replied. “I’m speaking of Louis, obviously. You and I both know that you have no intention of going to him, so why do you allow him to linger in this state? Be merciful; tell him you do not want him and then finally cease haunting his life.”

Oh, now I understood. I should’ve seen this coming, really.

“You mean _your_ life?” I laughed, mirthless. “That’s not going to happen.”

“He befriended a mortal tonight,” Armand suddenly declared, finally looking up at me.

I smirked, knowing that by saying this he meant to get under my skin. In lieu of reacting, I busied myself with kicking off my shoes and tying my hair back out of my face.

“You don’t say,” I casually replied. “Hmm… it’s not like Louis to play with his food like that.”

Armand quickly rose up from the bed. For a second I thought he’d approach me, but he remained still, standing amongst the glass with his arms crossed, glaring daggers. It seemed that any moment now he’d pick up a shard and come at me with it. In fact, I wanted him to.

Instead, he said, “You will drive him away.” 

His grim tone was what made me snap. “Good, then let him go already! I certainly won’t make him stay!”

Armand’s obvious resentment for me was suddenly visible in the lines of his brow, though his mouth remained lax.

“I won’t argue with you. I realize there would be no point. But heed this warning, Lestat: if you do not release him and in his anticipation he does something drastic, we will all know precisely who to blame.”

I threw up my arms, bellowing in frustration, “Yes, yes, that’s right, go ahead and blame me! I am the antagonist of this story after all – no surprise to anyone there! God forbid he be held accountable for his own actions!”

“Or you, yours,” snarked Armand.

“I’ve done nothing to him!” I barked back. “This is Louis we’re talking about; I can hardly be held responsible for every depressive episode he has!”

“He relies on you, and he expects it to go both ways. For you to push his hand away now, when it already takes so much for him to reach out in the first place, is just plain cruel.”

“Oh, so I’m the sole cause of his pain, am I? Go then, tell him to lower his expectations! Or let him leave if he wants, I don’t care! He shouldn’t rely on me in the first place! He _chooses_ to allow me to hurt him, knowing full well the kind of man I am! How is that my fault?”  

Armand scoffed, that mask of control instantly slipping from his face. “That’s rich coming from you. Remind me again, who made him this way?”

I grimaced. _Horrid little animal_ …

In truth, I couldn’t argue with him. I knew it would be like arguing against my own selfishness – nearly impossible. Louis may have started out a mortal on the brink, but there was no denying the fact that I’d pushed him. It was much easier to divert.

“Right, and who are you supposed to be?” I taunted. “A cherub sent down to save the poor angel from his demons?” I paused to laugh. “Have you learned absolutely nothing?” Armand attempted to cut me off, but I was quicker. “No, no! Don’t you dare try and act the innocent now, as if either of you aren’t just as selfish as I am. I know what you did to him before, and why you do this now. Your goal remains ever the same.”

“You know nothing,” he snarled through clenched teeth.

I smirked maliciously at him, glad to see that I’d struck a chord.

“I know that you want to leave the island,” I began, “that you’re just as sick of this joke of a coven as I am, but certain ‘circumstances’ hold you here against your will. I know that one of those circumstances happens to be Louis’s desire for me conflicting with your desire for him to leave with you.” Though he tried to hide it, I saw his eyes widen slightly at that. It was enough to bolster me. “Did you think you had me fooled? Did you think it wasn’t obvious?”    

 Armand stared at me, cold and silent for a long, tense moment. As always, there was something about his face that disturbed me greatly. And I was certain that he knew it.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Lestat,” he finally said. “If you knew me as you say you do, then you’d know that our goal is the same. So long as he lives. I merely thought I would warn you, I am not the one he relies on, and therefore if something happens, I will not be the one at fault. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” I mocked. “I probably do deserve it in any case. We all know what a monster I’ve become.”

Armand’s brow shot up, incredulous. “Become?”

I glared at him again.

 _You are so pathetic,_ came his silent attack (he was afraid of being overheard by Louis, I realized then, though I didn’t understand why; to me his hatred was blatant). _I don’t pity you, encased in a tomb of your own creation, and wallowing over the unjustness of your situation even so. But sometimes I think you should be the one in this body, so that your face may more closely resemble your mentality. You don’t deserve his devotion._

I stomped over to him, enjoying the intimidating sound of the glass as it crunched beneath my feet. I grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him close to me, nearly on his toes. He didn’t flinch, but I saw the fire behind his eyes, a longing for something flashing inside. Likely to take Louis from me, I supposed.

“That may be so,” I muttered in a low, dark tone, “but luckily it’s not a matter of who’s more deserving, now is it? You said so yourself that you have no power here.”  

Another prolonged pause. It was true, and Armand couldn’t deny it.

“You think you can get off clean by doing as you please, Lestat, but you can’t. If you go on like this eventually you will drive him away for good.”

“Why warn me then?” I demanded. “Isn’t that what you want? Clearly, you’re not trying to be helpful – I _know_ you want him. So, what is it you’re playing at, hm?”

Armand huffed and wrapped his left hand around my wrist. “Neither of us will have him if you continue on like this. It isn’t a matter of whether or not I want him though. Of course I do,” he coolly stated. “What matters is that, where Louis is concerned, our ultimate goal – the honest one – remains the same. And in order to reach it, you must do him this kindness and let him go.”

I released Armand and stepped back then, mildly stunned by his audacity.  

What did it mean? That he aimed to possess Louis, surely. It was what I wanted after all. But if Armand wanted Louis, then why urge me to make amends? Would it not be more beneficial to have him hate me first, to insist there is always another betrayal around the corner or that I did not want him to come back instead? It’s what I would’ve done. So, why not do that? I knew there had to be some reason for it, but I couldn’t get my head around what.

“I’m not holding him here,” I reminded. “He can leave whenever he likes.”

“But he won’t. Not until you tell him to.”  

“I can’t help him when he will not help himself,” I insisted, not sure what else to say. It wasn’t like I’d forced Louis to stay with the coven in the first place. Why should it matter now whether or not I gave him permission to leave it?  

“Yes, you can,” pushed Armand. “Make this right, Lestat. Tell him the truth.”

“The truth? About what? I haven’t lied!”   

 “The lie is what you’ve been withholding, that reality you refuse to face!” shouted Armand. Then he went quiet. _You’d rather bask in your own self-pity than pay any mind, rather than admit what you’ve done to him by cutting him out so suddenly like this._ _You know what he is like, yet you do what you know will hurt him. And you tell yourself it’s to protect him, but it’s not! It’s to protect you! If you cared for him at all, you’d let him go. But you refuse, because you’re selfish, and more than anything else, you fear that he will leave you!_

Enraged by his ignorant presumptions, I had a sudden desire to see him utterly subdued. With that thought alone, Armand went flying backwards. He landed on the bed, bouncing slightly as he did, and then peered up at me with eyes straining to hide alarm.

Of course he’d never admit it, but I knew then for certain that with the Mother’s blood coursing through my veins, he was more intimidated by me than ever before.

“I don’t have to listen to this!” I roared, playing on this fact. “You said so yourself, I’m the one with all the power here. If I were you, I’d get out of my room now, before I decide to test that power on the structure of your face!”    

Armand quickly stood up off the bed and immediately began towards the door. He took three steps then turned and glanced at me over his shoulder. In his expression I saw a mixture of intrigue and something bitter. Jealousy, perhaps. I thought he was going to try and have the last word, but wisely he chose to say nothing more as he walked out of the room.

As soon as he was gone, so was I.

Once again I descended just north of Miami, into that cozy little waterside complex with a completely different goal in mind.

I found her, the girl I’d spared from the rapist, in an orange-roofed house enclosed by palms, tall and swaying threateningly against the sky from the salty wind. I watched her from the rooftop of a strip mall across the street, which offered the perfect angle into her bedroom. Inside, she sat at a solid oak vanity with a towel around her breast and her hair wet from the bath, dripping off the ends and creating random paths around the curves of her shoulder blades.

Another young woman walked into view then. Her lover, I realized upon sensing the desire she felt at seeing the soft freckled skin of my target’s bare back. She ran her fingers down her bronze covered spine, dark as the night against the lingering paleness of her counterpart where the Florida sun had not cut through her clothes.

I was a bit amazed by their brazenness, showing such affections with the curtains pulled back. Anyone could’ve looked in and seen them kiss.  

Mind you, in those days, though increasingly accepted in certain circles, such “preferences” still remained quite the scandal in the eyes of the general public. And these two did not have the excuse of immortality to lead them to say “consequences be damned” as so many immortals did.

Far be it from me to judge, however. In fact, I admired them for it. They reminded me of that young man in Auvergne who, harrowed by wolves, had forsaken all things holy for a pair of strong, talented hands, the mournful sounds of a violin, and eventually the call of a thespian’s life, starving and drunken in Paris. Not that it had been a difficult choice for him to make.  

With that thought in mind, I now wanted her more than ever. I stared, enraptured, as her dark-skinned companion caressed her shoulders with one hand while she reached across the vanity with the other, then took to running a comb through the curling stands of hair sticking to her neck. When she brushed them aside, she leaned down and kissed her at the nape.

She shivered in response, then turned and smiled up at her lover, again showing off the sunny brilliance tucked deep into her earthy gaze. She stood up, moving to face her companion straight on, and allowed the towel to drip slowly from her breast, landing in a pile on the floor.

The other girl swallowed deeply around an answering grin. They kissed once, swift, then she stepped out of sight. As she did, the lights suddenly flickered off, shielding them both from the harsh, unfair scrutiny of this mortal world. Tucked safely away in a shroud of darkness.

Unbeknownst to them, I, on the other hand, could still make out their forms, come together to create one upon the bed, perfectly. I kept watching, hardly allowing myself to blink as the heavy petting began, uncaring that I might be intruding on a private moment, lacking all sense of propriety.

For what did it matter now, when I’d already done all those evil deeds that I had?

By comparison, could this really be called evil? Far from it, actually, it was divine; I was an unholy creature basking in their holy, but unholy love! I felt an intense connection to them, and more directly to _her_ , the one I’d set my sights on just hours ago. As she gasped at the sensations brought to her by her partner, I swore I could feel those fine pleasures too. I longed to join in their world of commendable sin.

After two hours, my target’s lover finally followed her into unconsciousness. I’d been standing there on that rooftop, completely still, waiting for this moment. But now that it’d arrived, I was uncertain of myself.

I did not wish to end this tale of love, but I was starved for her innocent blood. I silently cried, for I knew that when I drank from her I’d finally find relief. I’d feel as she felt, and see what she’d seen, and nothing appealed to me more in that moment. I wanted everything – to be her, to be her lover, and to have her soul belong solely to me – her conception, and her aging, and especially her demise! It was meant to be.

Thrumming with this need, I finally abandoned the roof, landing on the wooden deck in their yard. The backdoor unlocked and slid open seemingly of its own accord, but I knew I’d done it without really thinking. I slipped inside also without a thought, idling in the hall that led to their room, concealed by shadows.

I could make out those two bodies wrapped together under the blanket, outlined in silver from the moon and stars shining through the window. For a while I simply watched the rise and fall of her chest, breathing evened and deepened by sleep.

Eventually, she moaned softly and turned around, facing me. Rosy lips twitched into a smile, and her tongue darted out to wet them when her lover’s arm loosened around her waist, brushing teasingly along the underside of her breast and nipple.

It aroused me too. I could not bring myself to look anywhere but that spot.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, in the dark, watching them. Maybe an hour, maybe longer. But, though my resolve constantly wavered, my need did not. My thoughts were growing frantic, loud and troubled. I lifted a hand to cover my mouth, feeling the rising urge to sob.

I shifted on my feet and the wooden floor squealed unpleasantly. The girl stirred at the sound. I stared unblinkingly at her, willing her to acknowledge my presence without really meaning to. Slowly her eyes began to flicker behind their lids like she was dreaming, and after a while they cracked thinly open. She used her forearm to rub them clear as consciousness returned to her, yawning wide and stretching her limbs taut, like a cat.

Then she saw me, and her body stilled. I sensed no fear within her, however. And careful not to disturb her lover, she soon slid from her arms with practiced ease and tip-toed towards me. A sleepy smile adorned her lips.

“You came back,” she whispered dreamily.

I grinned at her, blissfully surprised. “I did.” 

Up until that point I’d been purposefully avoiding her thoughts, preferring to hear her speak her truth so that I may delight in the humanity of it all. But now, compelled by her words, I slipped inside her head as I imagined slipping into her body.

The first thing I found was her name: Grace. 

Grace had a sixth sense for these things – dangerous beings, entities that did not belong in this realm. She’d been aware and listening to the footsteps of her stalker well before I found him, careful not to allow him too close. So easy was it for her to sense his weak little presence, that when one as strong as my own appeared, she instantly picked up on it. Then, when I’d come down to earth and pulled him between two buildings to drain him, she’d felt his spirit fade, and then I was gone, and she was safe.

I didn’t speak to her any more than that. I couldn’t bring myself to. If I opened my mouth again it would be to take her life.

In fact, in my next move I wrapped my arm around her tiny form and, pulling her close, did just that. I sunk my fangs into her shoulder, and suddenly her blood exploded in the back of my throat like the sweetest ambrosia, so potent that it swept me away at once and my knees gave out. I had to put a hand against the wall to stop my descent.   

And oh, my delicious Grace, she actually moaned at the feel of me! I experienced her pleasure as vibrantly as I did my own. This was a kind of high she could not have fathomed until now. She welcomed death if this was what it felt like, because though she thought her lover had brought her the greatest joy, now she knew far greater. And she could never go back; nothing else could compare.  

I granted her wish. She was so small beneath me; it was only too easy. Then, as she did, the swoon soon dissolved, and that relief I longed for was blatantly absent. I’d come to just as miserable as I’d been before.

Well, at least my thoughts had finally begun slowing down.

I healed the marks of my teeth with blood from my finger, using the other hand to comb through the tangles in her hair, mimicking the way I’d seen her lover touch her before. After she was cleaned, I tucked her softly back into her arms to be discovered in the morning, making it seem as though she’d passed suddenly in her sleep. Then I left their little house in that Northern Miami neighborhood and flew back to the island in a matter of a few short minutes. 

I realized as I landed on the roof of the coven apartments that Grace had been my holy number seven that night. Her blood may not have revived me, nor had it brought me any closer to becoming human again, but it did clear me of my rage if only for the moment. And really, that was all I could’ve asked for.

What a blessed little thing she’d been, putting up no struggle. Accepting me openly as I ended her, so very willing. Dear, departed Grace, I did not deserve her. And now I mourned her loss.

 _Louis would’ve liked my Grace_ , I found myself thinking as I made my way back to my top floor rooms at the apartment. He would’ve enjoyed her flowery scent, her soft, knowing disposition, and the way her eyes reflected the sky. And too, he would’ve appreciated the irony of her name and my having taken her. Not for the cosmic joke that it was, which I so enjoyed, but for the representation – the proof he’d note of my own compulsive cruelty.

That is to say, Louis would’ve gladly taken Grace and our both having loved her as yet another reason to begrudge me if I ever were to tell him such things. I imagined him scolding me for my hypocrisy and ill intent. I tried to hear the gruff quality of his usually smooth voice as he did it, how it always inspired in me a desire to pin him down and replace his angry words with moaning, like prayer. For only I could do that to him – bless and curse him within the same breath – have him totally subjugated by my whim.  

Then, however, in the calm granted to me by Grace’s blood, I realized something: even now… especially now I was the one in control. Armand’s words were an unwanted mantra in my mind (“you have to end this… only you possess the power to do so”), but no longer did they deter me. Rather, I savored their taste. And for the first time in many weeks I felt suddenly compelled to face Louis head-on. I simply needed to hear his part in this. I could demand that of him.   

Veering passed the entrance to my rooms, I set out in search for him, intending to do just that. His own room was the first place I checked, but it was dark when I opened the door, and the air inside was still and stale, as though it hadn’t moved in hours. Clearly, he had not been here since I’d left earlier. 

Next, I headed down to what was essentially the common area of the apartments, where the coven sometimes gathered to be social with each other and take comfort in immortal conversation, and also to discuss politics.

Louis did not often accept invitations to go here, preferring to keep to himself as always, but it wasn’t exactly unheard of either. Sometimes I’d seen him sitting unnoticed in the corner, pretending to read his beloved Keats while he listened in, ever the silent observer. At the moment, however, he was nowhere to be seen.

But Gabrielle was. She sat on a beautiful black loveseat right up beside the girl, Jesse, who was running her fingers through the golden tresses of my mother’s hair, so like my own. Her eyes were wide and fascinated, still relishing her newfound vampiric notions of sight and sensation. It reminded me of a time when Louis had worn a similar expression, examining the ornate buttons of my jacket on the night he’d become mine, one of a few moments his book had gotten right.  

Distracted by her own current fixation, Jesse did not acknowledge my arrival, but Gabrielle did.  She looked up at me with a meaningful frown on her lips as I entered. Then she disentangled Jesse’s hand from her locks and silently communicated something to her with a single glance.

This quickly sent her on her way. She grinned cattishly at me as she passed, unlike the rather demure expression she’d been showing to my mother.                  

“Have you seen Louis?” I asked once Jesse was gone, suddenly anxious to have him.

Gabrielle’s face was impassive as she spoke, icy. “Yes.”

“Excellent! Where is he now? I want to speak with him.”

“He’s gone,” she told me simply.

I scoffed, trying to hide just how much this bothered me. “Gone where?”

“Off the island, presumably. I didn’t ask.”

“Why the hell not?”

She stood then, straightening the wrinkled fabric of her brown pants, and walked over to stand before me. “He left a message for anyone wondering – that they should not bother looking for him.”

“What?” I spat, knowing full well that his message was meant for me and me alone.

My ire was rapidly rekindling. It was fine for _me_ to avoid _him_ ; I had my reasons. But for him to avoid me back? I couldn’t stand for such impudence. No matter what the initial cause, this needed to stop.   

“Leave it be,” Gabrielle advised, before I could say more. “If you go chasing after him as you are now, nothing good will come of it.”

I clenched my fists against my thighs and resisted the urge to scream at her. For what would I scream? I wasn’t sure; her cold pity perhaps, or for not stopping Louis from leaving the island. But, of course, I knew it was not really her fault. No more than it was anyone’s but his and my own.

Still, I was positively livid.

Her arm jerked slightly then. For a moment I thought she might reach out to comfort me. But no, that was not within her nature.

Instead she cocked her head to the side and tried to sound reassuring, “There’s no need to rush after him. I’m sure he will soon return to you.”  

So was I. That wasn’t the problem.

“Did Armand go with him?” I pressed, already planning to redirect the flow of this violent energy. After all, I knew he must have been the one at fault, that conniving little devil. 

She shook her head. “I think he wanted to be alone.”

I turned away from her, intending to find Armand now and take my anger out on him in Louis’s place.

Before I could, Gabrielle stopped me with my name. “Lestat.”

I turned back to face her, impatient to get on with it. I signaled with my eyes for her to say what she needed to say. And for it to be quick.

Her mouth formed a tight line before she spoke. “I know you are hurting, my love, but before you do something extreme because of it, make sure you’ve considered all of the possible consequences.”

“Something extreme?” I feigned innocence. “Mother, I have no idea what you’re saying. I’m going to ask him a few questions, that’s all.”

Judging by the look on Gabrielle’s face, she was far from convinced. I figured she might say as much, but she seemed to think better of it, and she nodded in understanding. Though, I was sure she did not understand after all. She must have known it wasn’t worth it to try and reason with me at this point.

With that she walked passed me, trailing Jesse’s same path from moments earlier, and started towards the elevator. I followed her, feeling rather like the child I’d once been on her heels, and stood beside her as the mechanical box began its ascent. She stared harshly ahead, eyes trained to the door, though not really seeing it.

Suddenly endeared to her, I leaned down and placed a fleeting kiss to her temple. She looked at me after with that putrid pity now returned to her eyes, appearing so out of place on her usually hardened visage. She returned the gesture, reaching up, putting both hands on my cheeks, and pulling me down to kiss my forehead.

Such a rare show of tenderness from my mother. At any other moment I might’ve been pleased by it. Now, however, I was merely sickened. I did not want her sympathy, or anyone else’s for that matter! I shouldn’t need it! I was among the strongest immortals here!

 _Do not show me your pity_ , I almost cried out. _Show me your obedience!_ But, alas, she was not the one who I wished to say those words to.

The elevator paused on the fourth floor, where her rooms were. She hesitated before stepping out. I saw the muscles and tendons in her neck tense, her fingers tightened around nothing. But she did not speak as I assumed she wanted to. She left me without so much as a parting glance.

When she was gone, I stared down at my feet.

I rode the elevator to the sixth floor alone. I knew I would find Armand there, though I wasn’t sure how. It was simply a hunch.

Yet, here he was, sitting alone in Daniel’s room with the television on, but muted and flashing colors across the dark space. He seemed to be brooding about something, but I was too caught up in my own brooding to care. In fact, his misery made me strangely happy.

What’s that thing mortals say? That it loves its company?

Anyway, the anguish on his face dropped as soon as he saw me, replacing itself with that cold disdain he’s perfected. He lounged back across the couch, attempting to look nonchalant, but I could all but feel the tension in him. It filled the room’s air.

“What do you want?” was his greeting.

I tried to make myself look as menacing as possible, showing him a toothy grin. I’m sure it lacked any sort of good humor, however. “What did you say to him?”

Armand stared at me. “Who?” he eventually asked.

“Louis! Who else?”

Armand did not respond.

I went on. “Your silence only proves it! You’ve been pushing him to leave me all this time, haven’t you? And now it’s worked! Admit it!”   

Armand looked at the television. “He’s avoiding you. So, what? You’ve been pushing him away yourself, and now he’s returning the favor. I had nothing to do with that. Besides, I thought this was what you wanted.”

“It is! What I’m against is you putting ridiculous ideas in his head!”

“I haven’t said anything to him,” Armand stated.

I watched him for a moment. His brows were furrowed, pupils small, and his shoulders seemed stiff. Likewise, I couldn’t help but noticed he wouldn’t meet my eyes directly.

“You’re lying.”

He flinched. I was convinced enough.

Spurred on by this, I decided to try and delve into his mind. He resisted at first, but I easily broke through his pathetic barrier, more so than I’d ever been able to before. It seemed he’d misjudged the strength of my intent.

Images and words almost instantly began to trickle into my head, and only all too soon could I dive in, completely submerged, and begin searching for a sign of Louis. Suddenly, I saw them together at that club, _Amnesty_ , tucked into a room at the back along with Daniel.

What I heard enraged me even further. First, at Louis for having been so weak and desperate to have fallen for Armand’s wordiness (but this wouldn’t last, you see, for those were also qualities of his that I adored), and secondly, at Armand for purposefully exacerbating that wound of his – infecting it with notions of temporariness and helplessness. Then, finally, at myself for playing my role so adeptly, and for not being able to deny the lie.

Armand sat up when he realized what I’d seen. I watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed in dread.

I laughed, then appeared right before him. “You damned little hypocrite! You tell him to ‘move on,’ because you care for his feelings? But you didn’t say that for his wellbeing, you said it because you can’t ‘move on’ from him!” Then, filled with gleeful contempt, I repeated his words back at him. “But it’s time to face it; you’re not the one he wants!”

 “Well, I wasn’t wrong, was I?” Armand asked rather boldly. “The one _you_ want isn’t Louis, but Akasha. So, why not tell him as much?”

“Of course I want him! Now just isn’t the time…”  

“Oh, please,” scoffed Armand. “At least I lie to you instead of myself. You can tell yourself that it’s to protect him all you want, but if your avoidance of him only serves to cause him further pain, won’t it then create further risk as well?” His face looked suddenly resigned. “It would be better to put it to an end altogether.”   

“How and when I deal with Louis is none of your business,” I snarled.

Armand smirked. “I’ve been ‘dealing’ with him a lot longer than you have. He worships you, Lestat, but you do not own him. He and I share an understanding that the two of you never will. Obviously, his actions tonight mean he’s beginning to accept it, so maybe it’s time that you did too.”

The truth behind this statement burned me. I felt a low rumble erupt from the pit of my chest, and I thought about killing Armand here and now. But then I remembered Marius in his own place on the same floor, and the urge passed.

Without another word, I turned and left the room. No longer did I have any desire to touch or look upon Louis. If he was so harmed by me, then so be it. If he wasn’t willing, wasn’t happy to wait, then he didn’t have to. I’d continue on as I’d done before our reunion: perfectly well. 

Louis didn’t _need_ to want me. Plenty of others did.  

Now bearing this thought like a cross, I took to the sky for the third and final time that evening.

 

    

[…]

 

Night was only just beginning to close in on the day as I finished my trip across the Atlantic. I landed outside David’s window in time to watch a little light flicker on inside and then to hear him toss back the blanket as he rose from bed.

Or maybe it wasn’t my perfect timing; maybe he’d sensed my arrival, been waiting for me even through his sleep, and now he meant to greet me. And for whatever reason (because I am me), the thought that this might be the case thrilled me a great deal.

I ascended quickly, perching myself on the wall just beneath his window sill, not bothering to hide my presence with stealth. Inside, David’s heartbeat suddenly picked up. I heard him pause by the door and noticed him turn in the window’s foggy reflection, as if searching for me. But he saw nothing yet – I’d show him nothing yet – and so, with a deep nervousness in his gait, he went about his business.

The window lock was easily unhinged. I slipped through when he went out into the hall, concealed by the closed door. I threw myself dramatically atop his bed, wrinkling his pristinely made-up sheets with much satisfaction. His footsteps stuttered momentarily at the creaking sound this move created, but, as I knew he wouldn’t, he did not turn back to investigate. He was still rightly cautious and much too afraid of me.

While I waited, I’d busied myself trying to block out as much sunlight from the room as possible. Though I could withstand it, there was no need to cause myself the discomfort of burning when I was not the one who should be punished. And, once satisfied, I returned to lying across his bed.   

Around forty minutes later David came back through the door, newspaper in hand. He stopped short on the threshold when he laid eyes on me, calmly and gradually closing the door behind himself without moving much further inside.

“I thought that might be you I heard.”

I grinned. “Oh, were you hoping for someone else?”

A moment of silence. Then, “I thought you needed to…” he cleared his throat, excusing himself like a proper gentleman, “rest during the day.”

“Soon I will,” I stated simply. Though I wasn’t sure, if I was being honest. I was having a fine time of it not taking to the death sleep as consistently these nights… or rather, days.

David watched me intently, evaluating. “Oh, well... It’s not safe to make yourself so available, you know.”

I laughed, delighted by the irony of his words. Here he was, standing before me fidgeting with nerves like a scared rabbit in the face of my foxish existence, and still he offered me this friendly advice? How wonderful!

“You’re quite amazing, David,” so I told him. “That’s why I keep coming to see you.”

Despite his fear of me, he still smiled. Unlike Gabrielle, the pity in his eyes did not disgust me.

“Are you so lonely? Don’t you have any friends you may confide in without risk?”

I blinked. “Should I be insulted?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But you’ve come by yourself again.”

I narrowed my eyes. “As I always do.”

“Not always,” David corrected. “You’ve brought another vampire with you before. Once or twice. Whatever happened to him?”

Of all the times I’d come to talk to David, I wondered why he had to ask this question now.

“I thought it was dangerous enough having one, let alone two of us around.” I showed him my teeth for emphasis.

He tugged his collar. “Not quite. It’s only that lately you’ve been coming here more and more. And I can’t help but get the feeling you’re using my room to hide from something… or someone.”

“I assumed you already knew, David, I’m not hiding. I come to see you simply because you intrigue me.”

“Yes, but it’s somehow different this time, isn’t it?”

I quirked a brow, unable to help the way I scowled at his perceptiveness. “Oh?”

But David had a weakness. Appearing to forget his previous hesitance, his fascination with the mind of an immortal drove him to complacency. He set the paper down on his desk as he walked towards the bed where I lay, gesturing with both hands. I relished how he maintained such sincerity and good will even while speaking to a verifiable demon. And at the same time, I was infuriated by my inability to read his thoughts. He seemed to read mine.   

“Your visits have become more frequent, yes, but you also choose your words much more carefully now,” he earnestly informed me, adjusting his reading glasses on his nose. “Of course, I think I understand partially why, but I only know what you’ve chosen to relay. And I get the feeling that you’ve left something out. And in my experience those who keep the most secrets are often the loneliest.” With a finger still pointed, he seemed to remember himself. His eyes widened slightly. “Or am I mistaken?”

“You’re not completely off,” I conceded, already grinning at him again. “Maybe I am a little lonely since Akasha’s death. The things I did… the memory is a curse I carry alone. And I won’t talk about it, because how could anyone understand?”

“Rather like a soldier returning home from war, isn’t it?” David’s voice was just a bit airy. “Some find it difficult to readjust to life as it once was, and those they are closest to often have a hard time adjusting just the same.”

“And how do they overcome it?” I wondered, perfectly content to play along.

“Usually by bringing in a third party – that would be my guess. Someone like a therapist to help them sort it out.”

He had finally resigned to my presence then it seemed, sitting in his desk chair, though still fairly stiff.

“Is that what you’re trying to be, David?” I asked keenly. “My ‘therapist?’”

“Of course not,” he huffed.

“And if I asked you to be?”

He made a baffled face. “Well, I’d be happy to listen to whatever you’d like to talk about, but I hardly think I’m qualified to give advice to immortals.”

I waved off his distress. “I fear I’m over complicating matters in my head,” I admitted. “And I supposed I’d like to hear your opinion since, unlike anyone else I would go to, you are completely detached from the situation.”

David relaxed slightly in his seat. “Then, by all means…” He gestured for me to speak.

So, I did. I explained to him the pit I’d been falling into as of late, and how I thought to put this feeling into words to relieve myself, but that I feared the consequences.

And I told him of Louis, and how he was who I was fixed on saving – mentioning how it was he who’d put out his story, calling me to him in the first place. How that tabloid trash, Interview With the Vampire, which David had no doubt already studied front to back, had inspired in me a desire to tell the story of my latest horrors.

And I explained to him how he, that same Louis, was the one who I’d dragged here with me those other times. That I’d wanted them to more formally meet – that I thought they would enjoy each other’s company. And I said this all without disturbance until that point.

“Yes, I’d gathered all that previously,” David interrupted.  

“So, why ask?”

“Because I thought you might want to tell me yourself. But there’s more, isn’t there?”

“Sure.”

So, I told him the rest too. I complained about my reluctance to face Louis after this most recent rejection especially, and how I knew they, he and Armand, were plotting against me. I argued that every hour I was away, Armand was slipping around his mind, spinning webs of deceit to get Louis in his pocket. And frankly I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I said it, so I must’ve held some truth.

In the end, I was irate as ever; I told David, “I need to make a point.”

He made a sound of contemplation. “What point?”

“I need to remind them what I’m capable of,” I spat as though they were around to hear it. “Then they will finally see, and there will be no doubt about it… I avoid him for his sake! After all, why would I need to lie to myself? I only lie to those I love, right?” Then I laughed morbidly at my own tasteless joke.

David was frowning when I stopped. “Don’t you think you’re being just a bit irrational?”

“How? They drove me to this!”

“Whether or not that’s the case, you clearly want his attention. And from what I know, Louis doesn’t seem like the type to respond well to threats.”

“He responded to them well enough in the past! Back then there was no question as to whether or not I knew best – and I didn’t even have the power I do now!”

“I read his book,” David reminded me. “And that’s not entirely true, is it?”

Of course not, but I wasn’t going to say as much. Louis had let me have my illusions well enough before the incident with Claudia. What right did he have to shatter them now?

He’d been too passive to leave me before; sure, he avoided me often back then, but it had been only all too easy to persuade him into my arms again, even so. And he probably never would have done anything less than submit to my will for the rest of our lives if not for that demonic daughter of ours. The hold she had on him, coupled with their combined resentment for me, was much too strong for poor, weak-willed Louis.

“You’re mad at him for changing,” David said when I didn’t reply.

“No,” I hissed. “I’m mad at him for being so easy to control.”

“By anyone other than you?”

Again, I said nothing.

“Why are you acting so stubborn? Why not simply seek him out and talk to him about it if you want to clear the air so badly?”

“Because he left,” I hissed back. “So, clearly he doesn’t want to listen!”

David sighed. “Lestat, I respect that this is a delicate situation. You thought you’d found someone who couldn’t leave you, something you obviously deeply desire, and not only did he betray that trust once, but now you perceive him as doing so again.” He paused, leaning back into the chair, trying for comfort. “And I understand why you’re having such an emotional response to this, but if you choose to act on your whims in your current state of mind, you run a far greater risk of making the situation that much worse, don’t you?”

I tucked my arms beneath my head and closed my eyes. “Ah, but it’s as they say, David; I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t,” I muttered mostly for myself. “The whole coven sees me as the villain. Though I don’t blame them for it.”

“Can you do me a favor?” David asked, seemingly out of nowhere. His voice had a sweet sincerity to it that made me look at him.

“Depends.” I smirked.

He smiled uncertainly back. “Before you decide how you want to deal with all this, at least give yourself a week to really think it through.”

I lifted my head. “A week?”

“Yes, you can even spend it here if you’d like. Just please don’t act out on impulse – don’t let yourself do something you’ll regret.”  

“Fine,” I agreed, glad to have an excuse to spend so much time with him.   

Over the course of the week, David went on trying to talk me into seeking Louis out again. Discouraged by my last attempt, I wasn’t initially receptive to his words, but his voice and his company softened me.

By the fourth night the question was no longer whether or not I would speak with Louis about this, but rather what I would say to him and how. David began to council me on what he believed was the best approach. And I’d regained some of my confidence.

By the seventh day, we had a plan, and I as thoroughly convinced it would work. That night, I bid David goodbye, thanking him profusely for his patience. Then I soared back across the ocean, landing on that colorful, palm laden island, infested with iguana’s like rats, and I returned to the apartment.

But I didn’t feel him. Louis was not there.   

Undeterred yet, I reasoned to myself that he was likely still hurting from my abandonment. It was normal for him to wander off to be alone when in such a state. So, I sought out Gabrielle, who I knew would’ve kept track of him for me (for, of course, she knew me well enough to know I’d demand this information upon my return). Accordingly, she answered my question before I even had a chance to ask it.

“He’s in Miami,” she said without looking up from her book.

“Louis is? Really? _Alone?_ ”

“He was positively devastated when he found out that you left again without telling him,” she explained, though the sheer neutrality of her voice revealed more of what she felt than she probably realized. “He's returned before sunrise every day, but he hasn’t spent a full night on the island with the rest of us all week. I think he’s met someone who interests him.”

And just like that, all David’s hard work – that armor of rationality and logic – began to chip away. All my plans were instantly forgotten.

 I felt my shoulders tense. “What gives you that idea?”

“The smell.” Gabrielle scrunched up her nose. “A bar. And there’s something else…”

Her hesitation irritated me. “What?”

With that she closed her book and looked at me, meeting my eyes with such intensity, that I was sure she was trying to intimidate me, like she did when I was a child acting out.

“He’s neglecting the hunt,” she finally revealed. “Every night when he returns, he looks sunken and pale, and he talks to no one.”

“What’s the name of the bar?” I demanded suddenly, a new plan quickly forming in my head.

“Amnesty, I believe that was what Armand called it.”

I cursed, hating what I knew that meant.

“Thank you,” I said, but it came out sounding completely forced.

Gabrielle called my name as I left, but she didn’t follow. I was passed the door before she could register my movements.

I landed on the roof of that bar a few short minutes later, eyes scanning the groups of men consistently pouring in and out through the entrance. I contemplated going inside, but even aggravated as I was by the egregious nature of this most recent treachery, David’s advice to not act too rashly was buzzing like a mosquito in the back of my mind.

I knew in my current state that being surrounded by mortals as I laid eyes on Louis betraying me was not the wisest scenario to put myself in. I’d definitely make a scene. And how would that help me win this?

Instead, I decided to bide my time on that rooftop, deciding what I would do. If I saw him alone, I would take him and leave with him, I concluded. But if he was with company… Well, we’d have to wait and see.

The position of the thickening moon in the sky shifted over a large, wide arch in the time I sat there waiting. Something like three or four hours passed, but I was too caught up in my head to remember how long it actually was. To me it felt slower than usual.

Finally, just as I was getting ready to give up, preparing to trick myself into believing that Gabrielle’s information had actually been false, and in fact Louis wasn’t here at all, that fantasy vanished.

I saw him tinted red.

He came through the door with a tan, mortal man at his side. They spoke with far too much familiarity, and the man was quite alluringly handsome, all hard lines and dark Spanish hair, with eyes the color of the sun. If not for the hatred I’d instantly felt for him upon seeing the way he leered at my Louis, I probably would’ve wanted him for myself.

Then they kissed. 

It did not even occur to me to try and read the man's mind and learn his identity; I simply wanted him dead. I imagined following them to where ever they were headed, appearing from the shadows, and just breaking his neck with a thought. I wondered what horror Louis would show on his face, then what resignation, as it was no worse than anything I’d done in front of him before. Still, he would likely curse me for it! And the notion gave me great joy.

But I knew I could not do it. Louis was smiling at him in a way which told me he’d never forgive me this. Sure, he’d claimed to have long since pardoned all my past sins. But once again he was now looking for reasons to detest me – to leave me, and I didn’t want to hand it to him anymore than I ever did. Because now I no longer had his ignorance to tie him to me. And if he desired someone else, though I would not allow it, all I could do was allow him to do as he pleased. Lest I jump in and make it worse – lest I earned yet another regret. David had helped me see that.

So, that’s precisely what I did; blinded by wrath, I left, because with this my perception had changed. I needed to think a bit more before confronting him.

Because, quite frankly, I wanted to break him. For then he would have no choice but to come to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, you may have noticed i changed the name of the club where louis meets emile... it's now called 'amnesty,' because 'deliverance' seemed too long to be a club name to me. and idk, i guess i just like it better. 
> 
> um... i'm not sure what else to say. it needs to be edited more, as always. and i hate how long this chapter took to finish, but im relatively happy with the way it turned out anyway. lestat's POV is always fun to write, especially his interactions with david, so that helps. but i have to admit i'm anxious to get back to louis's POV so you guys can continuing getting to know emile! 
> 
> also i will say that i def could've made this chapter wayyy longer if i'd fleshed out the ending scene a bit more, but i figured you guys had already waited enough for an update, and i'm sick of looking at it anyway lol
> 
> anyway, i promise there's lots of drama to come,  
> so, hopefully you can look forward to that,,
> 
> but until then, thanks for reading !!~


	3. Die Sehnsucht

They were being careless with their arguing tonight, those two. It came off like the dialogue in some petty drama. They must’ve thought I’d been deafened, I assumed. That or they actually weren’t thinking much of me at all. Which was regrettably probable, and, if that was indeed the case, truly ironic, given the subject matter at hand.

Namely, me.   

Well, that might have been true of Armand at least. But when Lestat speaks, it is to be heard, and consequently to exert control. Otherwise he would simply stay silent. Yet, he always has something to say, doesn’t he? This being no exception. 

Of course, he now spoke only to fervently deny his role. What’s worse, he made a joke of it! I couldn’t stand the sound of that, wanting so badly to just walk out and never return, to in fact be deafened from his voice.  

But soon I remembered that “never” means nothing here. No matter what, the numbness would eventually return, and thus gradually return me to that state, I knew. The same one I’d been in before I’d heard his name on the lips of a stranger, and then seen him on that tiny, glowing box, glorious, alive, and a rock star of all things.  

 _How very fitting_ , I’d thought at the time. _He will never change._   

And I was glad for it. I hadn’t wanted him to.  

In the present, my fingers pressed down on the pages of my book, wrinkling them irreversibly with my inhuman strength, which, even so, was considered inconsequential by comparison. I stared blankly at the wall ahead at the same time, through which their voices could be heard, piercing. 

I'd resigned myself to this. Fine, I thought, if he wanted me to hear this – and of course he did – there was nothing I could do about it. This was my lot in life. Might as well stay and listen.     

Nothing about their conversation was particularly alarming at first. Unsettling? Yes. Painfully honest? Absolutely. But not alarming. After all, I was used to their bickering by that point. Though I’d only ever spent time with them separately before, we’d all been living together like this for a while now, and so of course it was far from the first time I’d heard them use me like a dagger or a bullet against each other.

For that reason, it was relatively easy not to take it too personally when they spoke of me like some kind of invalid. In the end, it wasn’t true. They knew that, and so I trusted them not to take it too far, lest I be forced to remind them (again, not for the first time). But, completely foolishly, I’d trusted.      

That is, until Armand so thoughtlessly revealed, “He befriended a mortal tonight.”  

 _Emile_... On impulse I slammed the book closed and stood up, already beginning to pace. _Mon dieu, Armand! Why would you tell him that?_  

He was surely aware that the last thing I wanted was for Lestat to find out about him. It wasn’t as if I intended on returning to see Emile again, but even so. Knowing Lestat, he’d have something cruel to say about it. He’d berate and demean me for it like… like it’s sacrilege. No doubt he'd use it against me.      

“You will drive him away,” Armand warned him then. 

I wanted to shout at him, to tell him they both would at this rate!  

Am I not permitted to move freely? I had to wonder. Shall I be locked forever in a silver cage if not? It seems to me that everyone in the coven may do as they please within reason (save for Lestat, of course, who is not to be reasoned with, and so needs none). But not me – _never_ me. For whatever purpose, I am expected to blindly follow the will of others. 

Why? Because apparently I am weak.   

Frankly, I was sick of it: being treated like a possession or, worse, a child. And I knew I should say something to them after all, that I should try and put an end to it right this very moment – for I am not a fragile finch to be catered to, nor am I puppy who cannot stand to be left alone. And this would be common sense if not for those selfish anxieties and entitled attitudes that seem so abundant in this place.

I should shout at them or disappear or set something on fire, I thought – and I stopped pacing in front of the door as if to do it – really, any of it! 

But no, it would not be the first time, would it? And besides, was it not contradictory to what I already knew; that Armand has his phases; that Lestat is predictable in his stubbornness; that I love them both anyway and something inside of me still craves more? 

I would've gone to them then if not for what Lestat said next. 

“Good, then let him go already!" he'd bellowed, sounding resolute. "I certainly won’t make him stay!” 

I turned around and crawled into bed when I heard that. There I lay completely still, listening to them fight – forcing myself to, because I needed to hear it, to grow a callous.

And, dear god, I’ll admit it now, because what other choice do I have? I waited for him. Like an absolute imbecile, I waited for Lestat to come confront me, hoping he might contradict himself again, as he was so prone to. I waited, because there was nothing else I knew how to do.  

But Armand continued goading, and Lestat just yelled some more, still speaking of me:

“…let him leave if he wants, I don’t care! He shouldn’t rely on me in the first place! He chooses to allow me to hurt him, knowing full well the kind of man I am! How is that my fault?”   

I heard Armand’s scoff. “That’s rich coming from you. Remind me again, who made him this way?” 

True though that may have been, I knew saying as much would only do more harm. Even so, I hadn’t really minded the way Armand incited him. An angry Lestat was a bellicose, in-your-face Lestat. And I wanted him in my face.    

 _Yes_ , so I prayed, _allow Armand to do what he does best. Let him pick you apart with bloody crow’s beak so that he may circumvent his voracious longings for a night, and then come at me in the wake with fangs bared and claws sharp. And hurt me in that certain way you do, with that certain shade of red on your tongue, like velvet._

 _Embroider letters into my flesh. Use me as I know you made me to be used, because that is your language. Then, in my own, in the pale hours before dawn reveal your truth to me. Because only then can we be as bare and as vulnerable as I desire, ad infinitum._  

 _Please, be plain with me, Lestat. I'm begging you._     

Of course, I expected no response. I knew he couldn’t receive my message; we shared not that connection, but if we had, I suppose I wouldn’t have been brave enough to send it out in the first place. And in that way, sometimes I am grateful not to be able to hear him either. I don't think my heart could handle such unfiltered honesty. Lestat is much too cruel.        

I kept my suspicions about Armand however, who I knew was likely intercepting that broadcast. He has a habit of listening in on me when he thinks I'm unaware. Much like Lestat, I suppose it’s because he tends to romanticize my need for him as being somehow more urgent than it truly is. And this way he feels like he can keep tabs on me most effectively.                

He must’ve been listening the whole time, for when my chest tightened to the sound of Lestat referring to himself as a monster, Armand’s presence reached out like a gentle caress, soothing that ache partially. And from then on, he shielded his thoughts from me, for he knew, as upset as I was with Lestat, I did not wish to hear this. I did not wish to witness the two of them, who I loved so very dearly, against each other. At each other's throats.  

Ultimately, however the arguing ended on a familiar note, with nothing accomplished nor smoothed over with peace. Lestat threatened him, and Armand fled downstairs, presumably to find Daniel and lick his wounds. And I thought about going to him, but lately I’d felt as though I was an intruder in his life, and it made me reluctant.

Besides, I knew he could be reasoned with. For now, it was not Armand for whom I was worried.

But with Lestat there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t go to him, he'd refused to come to me, and there would be no catching up. He was lightning flashing, there one second, then out of sight the next; he was a hurricane blown across the ocean, just like that.  

And, I ask, how does a man studying the weather capture a strike of lightning? How does he question it and discover what in nature made it happen? He doesn’t. He watches it strike, then the storm goes on its way, and he is left soaked by the rain. And, if he’s lucky, a roll of film bears the evidence.   

That is to say, Lestat had gone some place where I could not readily follow. I knew it, because I could no longer feel his presence lurking in the shadows, and yet I also could, like a snapshot in time, a breathing memory. And I was upset – not merely saddened by accursed loneliness, but infuriated by Lestat as I hadn’t been since his taking. When I’d only just gotten him back, as unfair of me as that may seem. Yet, in the grand scheme of things, it is not so unfair.  

Though, I had to wonder why the pain was so, not lessened, when this time he’d not even been mine to begin with.  

Well, to begin with, perhaps. But not now, in this new era, I suddenly realized. I should’ve known better. I should’ve tried harder. It was just so infuriatingly unwarranted; how could I move passed it without closure? How was I supposed to fix the problem when I hadn’t done anything to instigate it the first place? And why should I?  

I resented that I was always kept in the dark. It’d occur to me then that I should try deferring to another – that if his answers were not forthcoming, someone else’s might be, someone who knew him in a way I likely never would’ve if not for his autobiography. But, of course, when the moment presented itself, I froze. I couldn’t muster up the courage.  

Gabrielle returned shortly after Lestat’s departure. I was waiting for her in the lounge without really knowing it was her I was waiting for. Only her face made me understand. That was what frightened me most.  

She came in colored by life, gold hair wispy and escaping its braid from the island wind, fraying in little curls around her face. Her eyes were translucent and wide as the full moon, expressive as they could be, and her cheeks were flush from exertion, or feeding more likely, though her face remained hard set.  

Spotting me in the seat by the unlit fireplace (which I found rather odd of the architect to include in a time of heat and air conditioning, now pumping a cool breeze throughout the entire building) and greeted me with a nod. I first thought it was confusion which I saw flit across her face, but so cold was it that I could not be sure. It was just as apt to be judgment, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair at the thought.  

Regardless, I smiled softly back. 

She didn't speak. Though her regard did not articulate itself quite so loudly as her son’s, I could still hear the silent quandary flashing beneath it. I wondered on that wintriness for a moment too long;  by the time I made my request of her, it had condensed to something like rose quartz crusting her cheeks.  

I couldn't meet her eyes as I spoke to her. Instead, I settled on the wall just behind her head.

“I'm going for a walk. On the off chance anyone comes looking for me, please tell them I do not wish to be found.” 

I thought for a brief flicker of time that she might try and interrogate me. But no, she simply nodded again. The movement was shallow and accompanied by a subtly twitching mouth, wide, unintentionally expressive, and far too much like Lestat’s.  

Thinking we were finished, I stood, intent on disappearing for a while. But Gabrielle touched my arm as I moved to pass her, and when I stopped and looked I was practically singed by the fire which had appeared, so sudden, in her cerulean eyes. 

She spoke evenly. “You will return before daylight.”  

I hesitated. I thought I heard a question hidden somewhere in that statement. What exactly it was, I couldn’t be sure. Surely, she already knew what the answer would be.  

Although we’d become acquainted well enough by then, the calm coolness with which she conducted herself was still an oddity to me when combined with the aching familiarity of her face. She was yet a mystery which need not be solved. Unlike Lestat. It gave me pause.

Even so, it was moments like this that the Lioncourt family resemblance struck me as eerily uncanny. Though softened around the edges in some places, shorter, less masculine in the line of her jaw and the width of her shoulders, they shared features beyond coloring (the blond hair and blue eyes to which I’ve always been weak). It was that fair androgyny that made Lestat ever her twin. And I felt a guilty spark, thinking that this was definitely the fertilizer which had cultivated all my affections for her.  The thought alone seemed oddly disrespectful.  

“Of course,” I assured. Not a lie.   

With that, she let me go.  

I was grateful for the relief of the door sliding shut behind me, shielding me from her stare. Even this late at night the island was vivacious with activity, but it felt dull in comparison to the coven. I shook off the cold of my flesh, thinking to blame the air-conditioning for the lingering feeling of disconcert. Though it might’ve simply been Gabrielle’s heavy aura.

As I walked on, a juvenile iguana scurried by my feet and up one of the palms placed artfully around the apartment, hiding in the shadow cast by a spotlight. Insects hummed in my ears, a sound mimicking the waves of people still passing by; men in dress pants and floral shirts, white teeth flashing vibrant against dark tans as they sipped their cocktails “coolly” for their female companions – women who cackled and swayed remissly in their brightly colored bikinis, sparkling from the stilettos on their feet to the glitter on their eyes as they moved their gold chain-draped hips to an imaginary beat and held each other steady with long fingers made longer by acrylic nails like neon claws.  

I moved amongst them feeling out of place, all too aware of the looks following my back. Though I knew I was, in all my boring normality, a kind of novelty in a place like this, and that people saw me and thought, “he does not belong here,” for surely I looked positively miserable for someone who presumably lived on an island of gleeful debauchery. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling, irrational though it may have been, that they knew precisely what I was. It was something atmospheric, an instinct that had followed me out of that bar in Miami, clinging to my neck like a limpet ever since.   

Unsure what to do with this feeling, I made my way to the beach as I pictured before, in the elevator. Lost in thought, the distance seemed shorter than usual, and once there, I rolled my pants up around my calves, left my shoes hidden beside a bit of driftwood, then began to traverse the minimal, man-made line of the coast without much purpose to my stride. I suppose it was a form of self-torture, teasing my own longing like that.   

The salty wind left me wanting. Cross as I was with him, I couldn’t help but wish Lestat was there now, beside me, talking to me, touching me as I’d imagined.  

It made me even crosser.  

More than that though, it reminded me of the hunger I’d been neglecting. I was used to denying myself guilty pleasures like his company, but it had been long since I’d let myself go without the drink. I now wondered if appeasing that insatiable, immortal thirst might absolve my pain. But it struck me as a very Lestat-esque thought, so I quickly discarded it. No point in entertaining naïve notions.    

The grounding sensation of the waves breaking around my ankles brought me some peace for the moment. But not enough; the slower I moved, the further my feet sunk into the sand. And I could see an hourglass being turned in my mind’s eye.  

It halted me.  

Something in my gut shifted, critical, with that vision. I stood there, still, staring out at the dark ocean until the weak sunlight began graying the lowest part of the sky and my skin felt like it was on the verge of blistering. Death weighed heavy on my eyes as I walked back to the apartment, uncaring of what might happen. The few people I passed on the way smiled drunkenly at me. 

Later, while lying in the pitch blackness of my room, I could see that hourglass, sitting clear as day at the foot of my bed. Even when I closed my eyes, it remained, swiftly draining away.  

Lestat did not return to me that day. Of course he hadn’t. I’d been a fool to expect as much.  

By the next night I knew I had to do something different.  

First things first, I dressed in black lace and pants that hugged my legs more tightly than the hose of my time; admittedly uncomfortable, but not the worst to look at, no matter my reluctance towards the over-the-top flair of this era (it had a familiar sort of charm to it, I’ll say). Then, after checking myself in the mirror, I headed over to Lestat’s room. Without knocking, I pushed my way inside.  

It was empty, as predicted. I looked around; the curtains waved at me lazily in the gusts of sea breeze coming through the broken window. A faded copy of Daniel’s book – _my_ book sat on an otherwise dusty shelf, so worn that it seemed it would disintegrate if someone were to try to pick it up. Lights from outside glinted against the confetti of glass decorating the floor, arranged in a way that almost looked intentionally artful.  

But it wasn’t art, it was destruction. Lestat’s typewriter sat upside down beside the desk, the ink ribbon unfurling as it fluttered discontentedly in the wind, and from that alone it became a ghastly, tortured scene. Not to mention the rest of the mess sitting there, still untouched.     

I was suddenly overcome by a deep desire to air out the room – like I needed to cleanse it in order to move on – before I made any decisions – clear the room, and clear my conscious, as it were. I could not stand the tension that lingered here, hanging thick and thriving amongst the humidity.  

After righting the desk, I picked up the typewriter and returned it to its place. Next I began gathering the biggest shards of glass from the floor and put them in a pile. Methodically, I did this, until finally I found the last piece beneath the bed. Then I gathered them together, preparing to put them in the trashcan beside the desk. But when I looked it was already full, overflowing with crumpled paper.  

Curious, I placed the glass on the desk and took the piece sitting at the very top to unfold and smooth out. A short poem was written near the bottom, a little bit smudged. It said,

 

_"do not wait for me_

_for_

_wherever you are_

_there I do not wish to be"_  

 

A lump formed in my throat. I folded the note meticulously and then slipped it into my back pocket to revisit at a later date.  

Afterwards, I found a bag to dispose of the rest of the paper in, and then I got the dustpan out from the closet and used it to gather the smaller shards still sparkling on the light wood floor. As I dumped them in the bin, I noticed I’d missed one larger piece sitting just beneath the window.  

I moved to pick it up, unthinking. I wrapped my fingers around the shard, then stumbled over some warping in the floor and tightened my grip on reflex. I gasped, feeling the sharp sting of its edge biting into me. In my surprise I let the glass slip from my hand and fall, shattering on the ground.

A rush of adrenaline coursed through me from the sound, like some residual, archaic instinct trying to excavate its way to the surface. It was so powerful that, when I looked down at my bleeding hand, which had a long, straight slice running through the palm, I had to fight the sudden urge to deepen it. 

Instead, I pulled the blinds down over what was left of the window, shrouding the room in darkness, and I closed the blackout curtains, leaving them stained by my bloody hand print. Then feeling a bit lightened by the task, finally, I left the room. And along with that, the island.  

 

[…] 

 

By the time I made it to Miami, it had already rained once. Though it lasted but a few minutes before blowing over, revealing gaps, like little star-filled voids between the clouds, I’d spent that time idling beneath the awning of a quiet little café on Flagler St., questioning myself. As soon as it let up I continued northbound however. The wind was still howling wildly as I walked, tickling the sides of my face as it whipped my hair about, and I was sure it would pick back up again soon.   

 _How ominous_ , I’d mused. A warning of storms to come.   

Considering it was a weeknight, I was surprised by the sheer mass of people seeking refuge inside of Amnesty, as if it wasn’t just as, if not _more_ humid between the sweaty bodies on the dance floor. There was near enough heat and friction here to create clouds. They were a particularly rowdy group tonight, or so it seemed in my limited experience. I couldn’t help but wonder if the weather had stirred something awake within them as it did me.   

According to the flyers I’d read on the wall outside, they were having a party with a theme tonight, identified by some cryptic acronym I didn’t understand, and all of the back rooms would be opened by appointment only because of it. Not that anyone needed a room. There was no shame or modesty to be found here tonight. A significant number of patrons walked around in strappy leather outfits or close to no clothing at all, some brandishing riding crops or paddles. One man was even wearing a collar and allowing himself to be led around on a leash while he whimpered like a dog.  

I balked at the sight, thoroughly daunted. I’d come here with a purpose, but now I was not so sure it was wise. Or worth it.    

I was paranoid. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand what they were doing or why exactly. Of course, I didn’t, but that wasn’t the main issue. Regardless of the strange display, I couldn’t stand the crowd. Standing there, aimless amongst them, I felt ill, both hot and cold at the same time. My cheeks were numbing, but beneath my ribs burned like how I thought frostbite must, and my throat was dry and my tongue felt like it was covered in a thick layer of sand. 

I clutched my chest with my uninjured hand and tugged at my shirt; the light, lacy fabric was suddenly stifling. The building was packed so tightly that no matter where I turned, there were people on all sides. Their scents and sounds and prying eyes were the persistent harassers sent by my empty thirst. The air was too cloying, too tempestuous; my breath, needless though it was, was made up of ragged gasps and stung coming up. And, oh, my heart – it thudded excruciatingly in my chest.   

All I could think was, _I am such a fool to have come here now_. Even though I could feel the hollowness of my will. Even though crowds are my anathema.  

After all, as a claustrophobic, less-than-socially-inclined human, parties were my original Hell on Earth (Ironic, isn’t it? Little did I know what awaited me). Though there was no escaping such formalities back in those days, therefore one would think I’d have grown used to my mother’s firm, but quiet insistence that I show my face. But in fact, that seemed only to worsen my distaste. 

To be quite honest, I always feared her in the distant, respectful manner of an eldest son. However, in the early months that followed my father’s death, when she’d taken to hosting events at the plantation, in part to ease her lonely heart, but most often meant to urge me to find a wife, my childish fear had turned into a regretful disdain. And when I’d been ordered to attend, to at least _try,_ somehow her wrath was no longer so daunting a prospect. Much rather face that than the public’s, in any case. 

So, I had. I’d promise her willingness up until the very date, tricking even myself into trusting my word. But then the moment the guests began to arrive I’d become too sick with nerves to leave my room, and when Mother came looking, I’d use that and the mourning of my father – which had honestly brought me more relief than I was ever willing to admit – as a means to pacify her. As much as I could, that is.   

“It’s too soon,” I’d say time and time again, for it was always and would forever be too soon. “But maybe once I am in better health…”  

Then I’d allow her to berate me in that curt, cutting manner she had: with patronizing jabs and remarks about worries for the future of our family’s progeny delivered none too subtly in my direction (if only she knew the truth, I’d thought mirthlessly to myself). And devastating though it may have felt to face her pretty, silk-covered cruelty at the time, it was never enough to sway me. To the contrary, in fact. I began avoiding her too.     

And I see now, with vampire vision, that my growing accustomed to such things truly was never meant to be. Because even as an immortal, distanced from the phobias of humanity, I find crowds terribly over-stimulating at best. And that, I assume, means it’s probably simply a part of what makes me, me.     

Standing inside Amnesty, it was the same. If I’d thought to make a point out of it, my coming here, I was no longer sure how. My gut instinct told me to leave, but, remarkably, the idea of returning “home” and having to face that reality horrified me more than the crowd ever could. With the prospect of a real, more tangible consequence, it felt too much like admitting defeat. After all, no congregation of mortals could ever hope to harm me as devastatingly as Lestat could. Or would.    

Instead, I stuck close to the wall and made a path towards the bar. In part, I went that way because it was familiar, but also because my legs were unstable beneath me and I wanted to sit and collect myself before I did something ridiculous like collapse and make a scene. It was fruitless though. Many pairs of eyes followed as I went. I did not dare to look back, for I could sense them nonetheless, watching me. 

I swallowed around nothing, feeling the heat of my flesh fizzle out as that lonely, desperate chill sunk into my gut.  

 _Don’t look at me!_ I wanted to scream, but I was struck still, paralyzed.   

Just then someone brushed against my back as they tried to pass me, having not anticipated my sudden stop. I yelped and turned, but they were already gone by then, lost to the crowd, leaving me gaping stupidly at nothing.  

The impact shifted something inside of me. In that moment I realized I had become hyper-aware of all sensation. Every word uttered in my immediate vicinity, every scent and colorful article of clothing, every change in the room’s temperature was acute, clogging my senses, overwhelming me. 

I listened for a sign, something to warn that they’d noticed – for I feared so deeply that they would see the paleness of my flesh or the glimmer of my eye or the strange length and sharpness of my teeth and call me out for it – the monster that I am. But in the white noise of voices and thoughts I should not be able to hear, I was completely overcome. I heard nothing and yet everything. No one voice was clear.    

 If I hadn’t already long since lost faith in Him, I might’ve thought this was God’s way of urging me to tuck my tail between my legs and return to accept my fate. _Go home_ , it insisted. It was all I could do to disobey.      

Someone touched my shoulder then; I was so wound-up that it felt like being pinched. I quickly whipped around, honed onto that feeling. Not sure what I expected. Or who. Or who, if anyone, I wanted it to be.  

“Heya, _niño bonito_.”  

It was Emile. He was in the same jacket he’d been wearing the other night, looking at me with an unreadable, half-smile tugging his cheek. Despite my better judgment, I was relieved to see him.  

“You came back,” he needlessly observed, sounding almost coy.

I nodded, unable to find my voice until I’d swallowed down around the burning feeling in my chest. “So it would seem,” I eventually managed to force out over the music. It sounded thick and watery even to my own ringing ears.  

His smile gained some confidence at that. I wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t as if I’d meant to meet him again. Amnesty was simply a place that I knew of, one I’d arrived at on the back of a bitter whim. Honestly, I hadn’t expected to see him here. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come.  

Then again, perhaps I wasn’t being entirely truthful with myself. It wouldn’t be the first time. And either way, Emile didn’t need to know that. 

“It’s Monday,” I blurted for lack of anything better to say.  

He gave me a funny look. 

I tried to elaborate. “You said before, you come here every Friday…?”  

It seemed to dawn on him what I was asking. “Oh, right! Yeah, regularly, but not just Fridays.” He licked his upper lip. “You remembered that?” 

“Well… yes.”  

Suddenly, someone bumped into me again. This time it happened from the front, and the effect it had on me was instant. The sheer force of the impact caught me so off guard that I choked on an inhale, stumbling backward. But Emile was there this time to wrap an arm around my torso, steadying me.  

The man who’d done it – well, he was more like a boy, actually – mumbled out a drunken, giggly “’scuse me” as he righted himself. Purely on panicked impulse, I glared and nearly shouted at him for his clumsiness. But, luckily, he wasn’t sober enough to notice my distress, his eyes cloudy with substance. I heard Emile tell him to watch where he was walking through the rushing in my ears, but without even pausing to acknowledge us further, he kept going in the direction of the dance floor, tethered to the hand of his equally inebriated companion.    

I was glad for that, but the damage had already been done. 

The boy may not have noticed, but Emile did. I could feel the itch of his eyes scrutinizing me in the moments before I looked at him. However, he was smiling, unfazed when I did, and instead of pointing out my odd behavior, he merely pointed a finger upward, signaling for me to wait, took a half-step away, and then began digging through his pockets.  

“Wanna smoke?” he asked, holding out a shiny silver case of hand-rolled cigarettes. There was an _‘L.R.’_ stamped in twisted, stylized lettering on the front.    

I waved it away. “No, thank you.”  

“You sure?” he pressed, simultaneously sticking one in his mouth and lighting it with an elegant flick of the wrist.  

I nodded and looked up into the haze of the bar as he added to it: wispy clouds being ushered around the colored lights by fans in the ceiling. The ground seemed to suddenly tilt below me as I watched them perform their ballet, so disconcerting, sickening, and yet so mesmerizing. 

My voice sounded far away when I spoke. “It’s quite thick enough in here already, wouldn’t you say?”  

Emile’s hand, which I realized now was still on my back, stroked me. It was sturdy and calloused and strangely comforting. I could feel its every bump through the thinness of my lacy shirt. The movement was firm and grounding.  

“Wanna step outside for a bit?”   

I nodded again, more urgent this time. “Yes. Please.”  

I turned around and immediately began for the door. Emile was a few steps behind, his footfall much softer, far less hasty than my own. It did not echo so stridently in the alley, but it was there, could be heard like a reminder of what was to come. But that was inconsequential to me now. Or completely consequential. At this point I couldn’t tell the difference.         

Once outside, I collapsed against the wall, closed my eyes, and took a long, deep breath. I wasn’t sure whether to think of the warm night air as smothering, like drowning, or comforting, like a tight embrace. _What would make this easier?_ I wondered. I’ve never had the skin for colder climates, then or now or ever. Nevertheless, in one moment, I longed for an icy November rainfall in Paris, and in the next, the broil of the unforgiving Louisiana sun. _What did I ever leave there for?_ I asked myself.       

When I opened my eyes Emile was standing close beside me. 

“So, what the hell happened to you?” he asked with an unsettled smirk. His tone was just unassuming enough to alleviate some of my embarrassment. As he continued, his eyes traveled down my body. “Did you get in a fight?

I frowned. “What gives you that idea?”

I followed his gaze, which had grown pointed. My arm was wrapped taut around my waist, hand in a fist, barely visible from where I’d tucked it into my elbow. Blood had seeped between my fingers and begun to dry, obvious and dark red against the paleness of my knuckles. In my panic, I realized, I’d completely forgotten the cut. 

“Oh, no…” I trailed off, feeling guilty, as though I were telling a lie. “Of course not. It was just a silly accident.” 

I unfurled my fist, revealing the wound to him, which had begun threading itself back together somewhat during my trip into town. Though it was still inflamed and throbbing persistently, and when I flexed my fingers it bled. Admittedly, I enjoyed the way it burned, my secret little _aide-memoire._

Emile hissed. “Christ, _es asqueroso!_ ” he exclaimed, taking my hand and scrutinizing it even so. “What did you do?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Did you even _try_ disinfecting it? Seriously, let’s go to the bathroom and at least, like, wash it out with soap or someth– ”

I snatched my hand away, cradling it back to my chest. “No, thank you, it’s fine!” I spat more harshly than intended. 

Emile’s eyes lit up, rather manic, nostrils flaring. At the same time he straightened his spine and smiled at me in a way that was surely meant to placate. Catching the streetlights like this, his honeyed irises were ever more reminiscent of the midday sun. Or an autumnal moon. I couldn’t pinpoint which.

“What happened?” he asked again, sense of urgency dissipated. 

I took another deep breath and tried to calm down. “Nothing – there was some broken glass on the floor and I got careless picking it up. But it’s a clean cut; it’ll heal quickly.” 

“Okay, yeah, sure.” He stepped back, face inscrutable. “But maybe just keep an eye on it in case?” 

“I will, but I’m telling you it’s fine,” I insisted, wanting the subject dropped.

Fortunately, my curtness seemed to do the trick. Emile finished his cigarette and then tossed it to the pavement to be snuffed beneath the heel of his shoe. He continued eyeing me warily after, however, glancing repeatedly at my hand.

"What about the rest of you?" he said.  

"I’m…” I paused to shoot him a look. “Excuse me?"

He huffed. "I thought you were going to throw up or, like, _faint_ for a second back there," he explained, nodding towards the door. "I didn't think it was possible for you to get any paler." 

"I'm sorry," I heard myself mutter, not really sure what else to say. 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Emile chewed his bottom lip. "So, I take it you don't like crowds, huh?"

I sighed thickly. "No."

After, because I saw no purpose in adding onto that statement, there was a long moment during which neither of us spoke. All that could be heard was dulled buzz of the music inside, the raspy sound of my labored breathing, and the cars speeding by on the street but a few yards away, occasionally honking their horns and squealing their brakes as they turned sharp around corners. And, too, the howling of the wind between the skyscrapers of downtown Miami. 

It was Emile who broke first. "Where are your friends tonight?" he probed. 

"Not here."

He pulled an incredulous face and made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. "Then why are you? Places like this are supposed to be fun. People come here to get fucked up and have a good time. If you're just going to have a panic attack, stay home." 

"A… panic attack?" I knew what the term meant, but no one had ever said such a thing to me before.

His mouth softened. “Do you take meds?” he asked. I was about to question this as a non sequitur, but he must’ve seen the confusion on my face, for he quickly added, “Medication. Like for anxiety, you know?”

I was momentarily stunned. Eventually, I managed a denial. 

Emile frowned. “Ever thought about it?”

“No,” I said again. I almost laughed.

“Why not?”

“Have you?” I diverted pointedly. 

Emile revealed another cigarette and lit it before speaking. “God, you’re so cryptic,” he drawled, sounding tired. “You can’t be straightforward about anything, can you?”

“Why should I be? We hardly know each other,” I reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. “And at this rate it’ll stay that way.” 

I had nothing to say to that either. The wind continued moaning dejectedly, as if protesting the silence I’d left again. 

“I have actually, yeah,” Emile admitted after a while, then he blew a soft cloud out around his cigarette. “I do.” 

“And you find it helpful?” I was genuinely curious. 

“Sure.” He shrugged and scratched behind his ear – a tell, I think, that he was trying to look more blithe than he actually felt. “Makes the hard days easier. Helps me sleep.” He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “No offense, but I really think you should give it a shot.”

 I shook my head. “Unfortunately, hard days are no longer a problem for me,” was my wry reply. “Nor is sleep.”

Emile’s brow took a climb. He mouthed the word ‘unfortunately?’ to himself, clearly confused, but quickly seemed to shake it off. 

“Look,” he began, “I know there’s this, like, big ugly stigma around it and all, but what’s more important in the long run? Being normal or being happy? I mean, trust me, I get it; I used to have panic attacks like that almost constantly, and the first time an American doctor suggested I try and medicate for it I nearly bit his head off.” He chuckled dryly at the memory. “The only reason I even agreed to do it in the first place was because Lucas… my partner at the time begged me to. But, lo and behold, I haven’t had one since. In the end, turns out I was just being stubborn.”

Despite the way Emile smiled at me, he was suddenly tense in the shoulders. I suspect it had to do with the memory of his former lover. I didn’t pry.

I had no intention of offending him, of course, but admittedly I was a bit perturbed by his suggestion. I possessed no faith in his acuity either; I had my suspicions that his progress was the result of placebo, but how cruel would I have to be to suggest such a thing to him? How much more like Lestat?

Instead, I told him, “I’m glad you’ve found something that helps you. But your advice is misplaced. I’ve been this way for a very long time and there will be no changing it, believe me. I don’t think it’s possible.”

Emile looked about as unconvinced as I felt. "How old even are you?"

"Twenty five," I lied.

"Couldn't be that long then." He bit his lip. “It’s really none of my business, so I probably have no place to talk, but…”

 _Then don’t_ , I nearly spat. 

“If you want to vent about it…” He shrugged. “Well, I did already offer to listen.”

I frowned at him. “About what?” 

Emile huffed, nettled. “Oh, come on! I mean, something’s obviously put you in a mood.”

I scoffed and turned away to look at the street. It was only afterwards that I realized I’d more or less just proven his point. 

“Let me guess. You had a fight with your boyfriend.” It wasn’t a question.

I whipped back around. “It’s not about him.”

Emile smirked. “ _Sure_ it’s not.”

“It’s not,” I hissed. “In order for us to fight, he’d have to acknowledge my existence first. But no, instead he’d rather...” I stopped there, berating myself for being so easily flustered as soon as those words left my mouth.

Emile’s smile darkened. “Okay, so I’m obviously right. But I thought you said he didn’t owe you anything. Whatever happened to that?”

“He doesn’t.” 

“Then why do you care so much? Shouldn’t ‘anything’ include his attention?” 

“You make a lot of assumptions considering you know nothing about me or my situation. What makes you think I _do_ care?”

“You’re such a terrible liar, it’s actually cute,” laughed Emile. “Seriously, there’s no way even you can believe that, right?” 

I deflated, rather shocked by his frankness. “It’s the truth.” 

“Uh huh.”

“It is,” I insisted. “I am my own person. For once, this has nothing to do with him.” Even though, of course it did. It had everything to do with him. "I don't need him. I never have." I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince. 

Emile eyed me suspiciously. “Is that why you came back here? To prove that to yourself?” 

There was no use denying it. “Yes, but it’s clear to me now that it was a mistake. As you say, I’m fooling no one.”

“What do you mean?” He looked slightly bewildered. 

“I see it in the way they stare at me,” I admitted, not sure why. It simply felt good to say it aloud, I suppose. “I don’t blame them for singling me out though. You were right, I shouldn’t have come. I don’t belong here.”

Emile was smirking again when I finished. It made me bristle, feeling even more defensive, as if that were actually possible.

“Louis.” It was the breathlessly humored way he said my name that convinced me to meet his eyes. “Are you for real? That’s _not_ why they’re staring at you.”

“It's not?” I answered slowly. 

“No! You’re not being serious, right?” he reiterated. “You don’t stick out because of _that_ , _estúpido!_ You’re a gorgeous, goth, gay guy! Of course they’d stare at you, they’re probably trying to picture you naked! I honestly don’t believe you’re this oblivious!”

Yet again, I found myself speechless. There was much I could correct about that statement, but would not. For obvious reasons, of course.

“Did you just call me stupid?” I asked instead. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he was still laughing, eyes wide, “but this is all really some elaborate act, right? You can’t actually be this clueless. I mean, fuck, just look at your outfit!” He gestured to my body.

I glanced down. “What about it?” 

“What about it!” Emile waved his hand around a bit wildly, grinning like a hyena with a femur in its mouth. “I can see your nipples through your shirt, for Christ's sake!” 

I blushed, immediately crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you quite done?”

“Sorry.” He patted my shoulder, making me flinch. “It’s just that you…”

I glared at him. “Yes?” 

He wet his lips, that wretched grin finally subsiding. “Nothing. You’re just such a – an enigma.”

“What you mean to say is that you think I’m being dishonest again,” I stated plainly, feeling the need to be blunt. Or perhaps just feeling insulted. 

Emile wiped at the corner of his lip with his thumb. “Well…”

I cut him off. “Don’t. I have no reason to lie to you.”

He eye’d me, sucking on his lower lip thoughtfully. As he released it with a pop, his tongue peaked out to swipe along his teeth, abnormally long. When he was done his lips shone like candy coated with saliva in the sky blue light of the sign above. 

His eyes suddenly flashed. He’d noticed me watching his mouth, I realized. He knew I wanted to kiss him – Oh, God, I _wanted_ to kiss him? No, that wasn’t right. Because I didn’t. Because I couldn’t.

“That’s a lie,” Emile said, looking cheeky.

I didn’t correct him. 

He went on. “It’s funny. You do that a lot, don’t you? But I get the feeling you don’t even know it half the time.”

I shook my head, using my good hand to cover my eyes. I felt the movement in the air as he crept closer to me yet, his fingertips dancing on the skin of my wrist, just below the cut, like he wanted to grab me there. 

“Did _he_ do that to you?” Emile wondered, voice low, but even. 

I tore my hand away to see his expression. So deceptively relaxed. I suddenly felt as I had before, inside, a little dizzy, half breathless, and very afraid.

“No.” My voice came out airy, without any weight to it. “I told you, it was an accident.” 

“Yeah, I’m real sure you believe that.” The lines in the corner of Emile’s eyes and mouth deepened as he spoke. Something red was burning in his gaze. “But somehow I doubt it was the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last either.” 

I backed away from him at that, feeling burned. “Believe it or not. It doesn’t particularly matter to me what you think.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he attempted to assuage. “I’m not trying to accuse you of anything or make assumptions or whatever. I just know a thing or two about shitty, abusive relationships and figured maybe I could help.” 

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t _need_ help. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you.” I defaulted to polite only because I was truly mad now. This was the precise attitude I’d come here to avoid. I might as well have stayed on the island to let Armand berate me at this rate.  

“I’m not questioning that,” Emile said. “But sometimes it just feels good to talk about it with someone whose been there, ya know? Must be a Catholic family thing.”

I blinked, stunned by how easily he’d offered up that vulnerability, treating it as a joke. “You mean you...?”

“Yeah.” When he smiled asymmetrically like that, a dimple appeared on his left cheek. “That’s kinda why I came here, actually. To America. They beat me so bad once that I almost didn’t make it. After that I knew I had to get away or I really might die next time.” 

“Your family did that to you?” I asked carefully, thinking of all the times my parents had slapped me across the face as a child, and then as a young man and how much more humiliating that had been. Sure, I'd had a healthy fear of them, like respect. But they were still my parents; I’d never feared for my life around them. I couldn’t imagine.    

“Yeah,” he kept on, seemingly casual, “I mean, not always. Sometimes it was other people. But there were rumors all over town about my ‘habits,’ and Dad never liked me for shaming the family name like that. So, when he found me kissing the neighbor boy, that was the last straw, I guess. He tried to bleed the fag out of me. If I died, it probably would’ve been a happy accident in his eyes.” 

I stared at him. “That’s awful.”

Emile rolled his neck. “Honestly, I was kinda used to it, the violence. But with my mom it was different; after he told her what he saw, she wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t even look at me. All she did when I was around was pray for my soul. And I loved her so much... that hurt a lot more than a fist to the gut ever could, ya know? So, I guess leaving was just easier for me.” 

“I see…” 

“Hey, don’t make that face.” Emile grinned at me sympathetically, as if it was _my_ sad story he’d just told and not his own. “It worked out in the end. California was really good to me. That’s where I met Lucas.” 

I thought of the initials on his cigarette case and even though I knew I wouldn’t like the answer, I had to wonder, “What happened to him?” Because I knew something must’ve.

Emile took another long drag off his cigarette. “An overdose. But that was a little over a year ago now.”

I grimaced, wishing I hadn’t gone there. “I’m sorry.”

“‘s okay.” He smiled again, this time it was softer and didn’t reach his eyes. “Not your fault. He was just hanging with the wrong crowd is all.”

Once again, we sat in silence for a long while. This time it was uniquely tense.  

“So, you planning on coming back inside tonight?” Emile changed the subject rather abruptly.

I hesitated. 

“No pressure,” he tacked on. “Like, I know you don’t really like this sort of thing, and I get it if you want to go. But I wouldn’t mind talking to you more. So, if you do decide to stay, that’d be pretty cool.” He winked at me, the hint of some devious joke in his eye.

“I don’t know…” I muttered, unconvinced. 

“Would it make you feel better if I promised not to leave your side?”

I made a face. “Not particularly, no.”  

He laughed at that; I found the sound oddly contagious. I had to wrestle down the urge to smile back. 

“Come on,” he coaxed, “you can tell me how you get those fake teeth to stay in so well. I totally dig the whole ‘undead’ look by the way.”

I really did smile at that. I enjoyed his ignorance, how very mortal it all was. I liked basking in the illusion of my appearance _being_ an illusion.  

“That book you had with you before,” I diverted, “who is it by? I’d much rather talk about that.”

“‘Death on the Nile’? It’s an Agatha Christie.” Emile laughed. “So, is that a ‘yes’?” 

“Sure,” I acquiesced. “Why not? I don’t feel like going home yet anyway.”           

 With that, he moved to swing the door open, then stood there gesturing me inside. I stepped over the threshold, trying to hide the nervousness that struck me in time with the _WHAM_ as the door swung shut behind us. Then Emile’s hand was on my elbow, and he was leading me deeper through the crowd, sticking close. 

“Hey!” he yelled over the music directly into my ear. 

I turned my neck to look at him. 

“Wanna dance?”

Glad for the excuse to do something mindless, I nodded, allowing him to guide me forward again. Once we’d found an open spot amongst all the damp, gyrating bodies, he pulled me close by the hip, spine to chest, and began to sway us in time with the music. 

I leaned back into him on pure instinct. He smelled like stale tobacco and musty closets and rainwater and sex. It was dirty, absolutely disgusting. And I loved it. I suppose, simply because in an animalistic sort of way, it felt a little dangerous, a little freeing to allow myself this. Despite my better judgement, I wanted nothing more than to revel in the flex of his muscles, hot and pulsating with blood against my own, to think of nothing for a change, when typically all my fears were closest in places like this. And for the first time in a long time I felt strong.      

By the third song, Emile was dripping sweat below his shirt and ruddy in the cheeks. The veins bulged in his arms, drawing my eyes, pumping wildly in my ears, singing to me like a siren’s song. I knew I should not head it, that it was an angler. But it was impossible to ignore. I knew they’d be warm against my lips.  

I turned around in his arms, all but failing to resist the urge to burrow my nose against that spot, to breathe him in and then devour his essence. But his smell was so pungent, unlike any mortal before him, and it amazed me that no other vampire had found him first, right there for the taking. I knew without a doubt that his blood was the stuff of Heaven, of eternal ecstasy, and I hadn’t even tasted it. But I couldn’t stop myself from leaning closer, searching for the source. And instead of biting him, I drifted. 

I lost track of time after that, it was easy in this vast, windowless space, existing like its own separate world in and of itself. We were all Gods here.  

At one point we left the dance floor to get him a drink (luckily, Emile didn’t push me to order one as well this time, appearing to take my rejection at face value), but I don’t remember much about it besides the fact that the pink-haired bartender from before was absent. And that I was both grateful and perturbed by this observation. Otherwise, Emile downed the clear liquor he’d ordered in three short gulps, then we were back on the floor, moving together in fluid rhythm for what felt like a dragging, blissful millennium.

I did not drink from Emile that night, but I’d been hypnotized by the thought of it from the moment he’d touched my hip, everyone else in the room forgotten. I kept picturing how it might happen in my head.  

I only realized how sweaty he’d become because I felt it cooling against my flesh where he had warmed me. Wanting to swipe it up with my tongue, I watched it bead down his jaw and over the angle of his shoulder. Up until that moment, I’d been lost in a fantasy of power, of choice. Then a drop disappeared beneath the band of his watch, and I saw what time it was.

Reluctant to return to the mortal realm I’d forsaken, I peeled myself away.

“It’s late.”

Emile grinned, all teeth, protruding canines. It made his mouth seem too large for his face. 

“Getting tired?” he asked, still bobbing and weaving to the beat.

“Yes.”

He chewed the inside of his lip, wiping sweat from below his nose with his thumb.

“Alright, come on.” He grabbed my uninjured hand. “Let's go.” 

We walked to the door. On the steps outside he stopped, looking rather shy. In an endearingly false sort of way.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked. His eyes flashed; something seemed to dawn on him. “Wait, do you work?” 

I had to stop myself from laughing. “Not right now. But my days are full up.” It was the safest answer. Not really a lie. 

This didn’t seem to surprise him. “Well, come by later then. And bring your boyfriend. I wanna meet him.” 

I scoffed. 

“Sorry,” Emile amended, “ _not_ -boyfriend. Whatever. I just wanna size him up – it’ll be fun!”

I shook my head. “You really don’t know what you’re asking, so I can’t fault you for it, but that’s a truly horrendous idea. Believe me.” 

He shrugged. “Okay, so don’t. Just come by yourself then. Even better.” 

“I’ll think about it,” I relented.

By the look on his face, it seemed like he knew that meant ‘yes.’ Which, to be quite honest, annoyed me a bit, especially considering even I didn’t know that yet. 

Regardless, with that we parted ways for the night. 

 

[...]

 

I arrived on Night Island an hour later. 

I took the walk back to the apartments at a leisurely pace, quietly itching to enjoy the journey for as long as I physically could. But, as all things do, eventually it had to come to an end, and once again I found myself back at the door to that top-floor suit listening to the silence that echoed inside. And hating myself for it. 

Marius had been waiting for me, it seemed; he followed me up the elevator not long after. I hadn’t thought he’d been paying much attention anymore until then. Hadn’t seen him since the night before. I wondered who it was that tipped him off. Armand? Daniel?

“Gabrielle,” Marius said. “She worries for you both, but fears she is too insensitive with words to come to you herself.” 

His face was utterly impassive. I turned away from it, back to the door.

“He isn’t here, Louis.”

“I know.” I paused to sigh. “Where then?”

“To see the scholar, that man he likes, David.”

“Oh.”

I hadn’t spoken with David extensively enough at that point to know whether or not that was a good thing, though I had a subtle hope. Lestat had taken me there a few times to try and force me to meet the man, but I only actually went into the building with him once, during the very last trip. It wasn’t long after that Lestat had begun to distance himself from me. 

“Is this it then? Have you decided what you want?” Marius wondered, not accusingly, simply curious. 

No. I honestly still had no idea what to do. I felt stuck. Stuck like how I was and had always been, right where I stood, waiting outside this room, longing and lingering in some limbo like this. 

Marius said nothing. He touched my shoulder briefly, then disappeared back behind the doors of the elevator. I got the feeling he already knew. Made me feel like running. 

Still, I remained there a while longer, standing immobile and statuesque and hoping against all hope that the next night might be different. That I'd see and have Lestat, and be seen and had by him, and once and for all leave this dangerous game behind for something just as dangerous, but much more familiar, and therefore safe. Even if that scared me a bit in and of itself. But, still, I was disgusted by myself, because in the end it felt like an excuse, something to perpetuate that dreadful weakness I was trying to overcome. And why would I want that?

Was my weakness so embodied by Lestat? 

It was this question which ultimately compelled me to walk away from his door. And later, while lying in the stagnant blackness of my room moments from blissful nothingness, I forced myself to think of anything other than him and that he had not returned. And, like a reckless fool, I settled on the flashing lights and vibrating sounds of Amnesty. 

My dreams that day were fitful, but invigorating, filled with images of Emile’s beautiful face, pale and smoothed over by immortality. 

I awoke the next night to the off drum-like beat of thunder and a sickening sense of guilt in my stomach. 

I knew almost instantly that Lestat had not returned.

 

[...]

 

"So, he's just been completely ignoring you?" 

I looked over at Emile where he sat to my left. His hair was sticking up in random places, frizzy from the rain, and his face was rather blotchy in spots, like his cheeks had absorbed the humidity a little too well. But he was still incredibly handsome, even so, and it made me feel hot with shame with how easily he took my breath away.

He'd had an ugly, grim scowl marring his face when I came in initially, but as soon as he looked up from the bar-top and saw me, it dissolved into a smile so rapidly that I couldn’t be sure it hadn’t all been in my head. It was thrilling, in an wavering, uncertain sort of way. And exactly what I needed. 

I nodded. "It's getting worse. He never came home last night," I explained, feeling the bitter sting of the words as they made their way up my throat. "I doubt he will tonight either." Though still, I hoped...

Emile let out a sharp hiss as though he'd burnt himself. "Ouch. And you're sure you didn't, like, do something to piss him off?"

I had to scoff. "Last time we spoke he begged me not to leave him. No, this isn't about me, not really." 

"Then who _is_ it about?" 

"No one except him. As is typically the case when dealing with one so inherently selfish."

"Sheesh." Emile leaned back against the edge of the bar. "I hate to ask this, but are you sure he's not cheating?" 

"Oh, no. I'm not with anyone else in that way currently, but we aren't..." I didn't  know how to put it in English without sounding crass. 

"Monogamous?" he supplied. 

I nodded, resting my elbows on the bar.

"If you're so unhappy with the guy, why not just leave him then?" Emile pressed, sounding rather too flippant for my comfort. "I mean, from what I can tell, he clearly doesn't deserve you. And if you're worried about being single, stop. There's still plenty of fish in the sea." He concluded this statement with a wink.

 _If only it were that easy,_ I thought. 

"I'm not afraid to be alone," I said. "Far from it actually. It wouldn't even be the first time I'd tried to part ways with him. Years ago, I did. But back then, he'd have done anything to keep me. It was always me who wanted to leave, me avoiding him, never the other way around. So, why now, when I actually _want_ to stay, won't he let me? He needs someone who is wholly devoted to him, I know that now, and I'm finally ready to be that for him. I just need a chance to show him." 

Emile had an unimpressed look on his face when I was done. "Why? Sounds like the guy's a walking PSA for domestic violence if you ask me." 

"Don't assume you can boil him down so simply like that," I countered tersely, feeling an uncharacteristic need to defend Lestat all of a sudden. "There are still many layers to this story that you aren't privy to."

Emile had the sense to look a bit sheepish. "Sorry, I know. But I just think there's a limit to how much bullshit people should tolerate from each other, and you seem to be toeing that line pretty closely." 

Well, he was right about that. "That's probably wise," I conceded. "But you don't understand how much I… I waited so long to hear him speak to me like that, to be kind to me and ask me to stay. And now that I've finally had a taste of it, how could I walk away? It's all I ever wanted from him. It was never perfect, but perfect wasn't what I needed. And there had to be something that drew me to him originally, right?" 

Emile stared at me for a few seconds, wetting his lips. "You really love this guy, huh?" 

"Yes, that was it." I rubbed my temples mostly out of habit, but I swore I felt a headache coming on. "It took me a long time to admit it. But now that I have, everyone around me seems to think that it would be better for us both in the long term if I left, and even though it's the last thing I want, I can't help but wonder if they're right." 

A wetness began to well up in my eyes. I quickly dabbed it off before he could notice the color. My wrist came away covered in subtle pink splotches. 

Emile did, however, notice the action. His hand appeared on my back, rubbing slowly. I unconsciously leaned into the touch. 

His voice was soft, if not a bit teasing. "I can't believe you don't drink. It seems like you need one, like, constantly."

I hummed, briefly closing my eyes to revel in the warmth of his touch. "Hm… all the more reason not to." 

Emile chuckled. "Well, babe, you've got better self control than me. That's for damn sure." With that, he lifted the shot he'd left sitting in front of him in a mock salute, then tossed it back with a fluid, practiced move. 

My eyes followed the bob of his Adam's apple. I felt instantly ravenous. And it was then that I realized, if only fleetingly, how long it had been since I'd last taken a life and replenished myself. I was suddenly incredibly self-conscious of the chill I could feel bubbling up from beneath my flesh, like raw emotion.

“How’s your hand?” Emile wondered then.

I closed my fingers into a fist. “Fine.”

“Lemme see.”

Before I had a chance to protest, he was pulling on my wrist and twisting it up. 

The cut had completely healed over during the day. I cursed myself for not having the forethought to at least wrap it with a bandage as I saw his eyes widen and mouth fall slightly slack, stunned by the sight. I swiftly pulled away, tucking it into my side, and he tensed up at the same time. I thought he might give me some distance then, that maybe he’d finally realized what sort of dark forces he was meddling with. But that wasn't the case.

Whatever it was that hung in the air between us, it was only building, readying itself to snap. 

I watched him for a sign of horror or… something else. Feeling rather paralyzed myself, I stayed silent, waiting for him to say whatever it was I saw flickering behind his gaze. But his face was hard like brown obsidian, illegible as a newly uncovered language, long dead.

At first I thought he was afraid, but his grip tightened on my wrist, and though he had calmed down somewhat, he still seemed to burn. His eyes were wild and honed onto mine, practically unblinking, pupils impossibly large. There was no sign of him pulling away any time soon.  

If he’d have been a vampire, I would’ve known what that look meant. It would’ve meant he was going to bite me. But he wasn’t a vampire; he was simply a man. A man, which was something I hadn’t been in such a dreadfully long time. How could I ever interpret it?  

Much to my relief, we never spoke of what he'd seen beyond that. When I realized no interrogation or rejection was forthcoming, I allowed him to guide me to the dance floor, where I rested my head on his shoulder and basked in his radiant attention without remorse. For I had to have it somehow, from somewhere.

It wasn't my fault if Lestat no longer wished to give it to me. It was only fair this way, in my opinion. He was with David now, after all. Not a worry for me. So, why should I worry for him?      

Only when the sun had risen too close to the skyline for comfort a few, hazy hours of dancing later, did I finally disentangle myself from that fantasy, and by proxy, Emile. On my way out he stopped me at the door, same as he had last night, only this time I was hungry. Hungrier.  

And it was me who asked, "Will I find you here tomorrow as well?" 

Emile grinned, nice and bright and exactly the kind I was aiming for. "Sure, I'll be around."

On the trip home, I wondered what I would do if Lestat was there waiting for me. 

He wasn’t.  

Later, when I woke again and there was still yet no sign of him, I remembered Emile’s words and took comfort in the notion that at least someone out there was waiting for me. Then, once I was dressed and centered, I left directly for the city.

I told none of the others where I was going, though I was sure Armand had his suspicions. As far as I was concerned, the less they knew, the better.

When I arrived, Emile was leaning against the wall outside, scanning the alley. 

When he spotted me, he greeted me with an enthused, “There you are, finally!” and a hug that seemed to practically vibrate my body, as though he could not contain a deep, primal desire to dance.

Feeling lightened by his mood, I smiled and allowed him to rush me through the door to do just that.  

This process repeated itself for five consecutive nights. Each time I awoke to the realization that Lestat still had not returned, it stung a little more, but dissipated a little faster when I imagined what was to come. And with the help of Emile, I again was beginning to adapt to the idea that my immediate future might not involve Lestat as much as I'd foreseen after all. 

By Saturday night, that inscrutable thing which had been steadily manifesting between Emile and I throughout the week seemed to reach its pique. Something in the Florida air had changed too, that old, chaotic energy renewed. I'd been staring at his lips all evening, feeling it, red and damp and tempting. And he was anticipating what I would do, I could tell. I could all but taste his desire for me on his breath.

"Wanna come back to my place?" he asked a few hours in as we danced face-to-face. Then he positioned my arms so they were up around his shoulders.

I wanted to. "I can't," I said. 

"Sure you can. It's not like you have a boyfriend waiting for you back home or something." 

Had I not been so endeared to him, that might've angered me. 

"It's not that." Not only that at least.

Emile's lips were a hair's breadth from my own. "Then what?" 

I sighed, regretful, and leaned slightly back. "I'm sorry. I just can't." 

Our visit would have to be short tonight too. I still hadn't been to hunt since meeting him, and it was getting more and more difficult to keep control of myself with each passing night. Especially when he smelled so good, so beyond human really. At this rate, I wouldn’t last another hour.  

I wanted to stay like this forever though. That was the hardest thing. But, even so, eventually it became too much to bear, and I put our dance at an end. As always, when I told him so, Emile nodded and ushered me safely to the door without a fuss. Without making me feel at fault. And I couldn't have been more grateful for that.   

Outside the sky was cloudy without the threat of rain.

“Hey,” Emile called for my attention, tone airy and plush. Private. He glanced around the alley. 

Drunk on the freedom of it all, even though he didn't ask, I smiled for him when he finally leaned in close. Then he was kissing me, and I couldn’t help but savor it, sweet and slow and wet-hot, just a little sloppy, and almost exactly how I imagined it to be. So very different to the demanding kisses I was accustomed to. Except, instead of the buoyant, giddy feeling I'd been expecting, as we pulled apart I was struck by a harrowing sense of dread. 

I felt suddenly frozen. It was then that I knew what a mistake I'd made. His presence called out to me like a missing limb looking to be reattached. Festering and putrid, undulating with maggots, showing bone. I could smell it rotting. 

Lestat was back. I didn’t have to see him to know. He'd come looking for me. He'd been here, at Amnesty, watching.

He saw us kiss. 

And as I made my way home on that fateful night, there was but one question on my mind: 

_Dear God, what have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> 1\. I know it's a controversial subject, so I just want make sure it’s clear that I personally do NOT have the opinion that medications for mental illnesses are “useless” or “don’t work.” I believe everyone is different and that they’re useful for a lot of people and are extremely important to helping them live their day to day lives. 
> 
> If you take medication for mental health problems, I am so glad you have found something that helps you, and I pray you have very little side effects. 
> 
> That being said, I wrote Louis as having skewed ideas about mental health and mental health medications for a few different reasons. But mainly because I wanted to show that he has a twisted sense of self-value, partially because of his time period’s view of mental illness, and in particular, his own anxiety and how that's changed as a vampire.
> 
> 2\. In case you don't follow my tumblr, so you don't know, my laptop crashed and I lost a significant amount of writing for this and other fandoms. I was able to save some, but most couldn't be retrieved because I'd written it all within the span of like 3-4 days before my laptop decided to kill itself. So, that's partially why this chapter took so long to come out. Whoops, sorry.
> 
> 3\. There's a lot I want to say about Emile... but... CAN'T... So, I'd really like to hear any impressions of him this chapter leaves. Notice anything you didn't notice in Chapter 1 maybe? Let me know ;)
> 
> 4\. Otherwise, I just want to say sorry for the cliffhanger. I'm going to try and start Chapter 4 tomorrow though, and I'll have a little more time than usual to write this week, so I plan to take full advantage of that (fate willing). But just so you know, this story is going to be like at least 10 chapters when finished. As far as I'm concerned, it's a long term thing and probably going to be my main focus for at least the next year. 
> 
> As always, it needs more editing, but I'm too tired to care rn..../ 
> 
> Remember, comments and kudos are the lifeblood of my will to write, so make sure to leave them if you like what you're seeing !! 
> 
> &&Thanks for reading!~
> 
> P.S., if any spanish speakers wanna fix my grammar, feel free! (no seriously, im begging u,, pls_)


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